


Ash

by Enchantable



Series: Firebird (Accessible Version) [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:27:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 41
Words: 95,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26382613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enchantable/pseuds/Enchantable
Summary: “We need a healer,” Arthur yells.“Bring her!” The Red Spear says. Arthur looks at her and shakes his head, “well every other healer is occupied!”“Not her,” Arthur says.“We need him alive, she—““Is right here,” Pym says, picking up her bag. She concentrates on the amulet, “and doesn’t need to be spoken for,” she looks at Arthur and sees him wavering, “I’m better than no healer.”After everything Pym has faced down, Squirrel bringing the Weeping Monk to her isn't something she was prepared to deal with. As in all things, she adjusts.
Series: Firebird (Accessible Version) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1917388
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Firebird](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25413787) by [Enchantable](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enchantable/pseuds/Enchantable). 



The amulet makes her brave.

Pym knows that Nimue would say otherwise, but Nimue’s not here. It’s just her. Well, it’s her and dozens of others, but she’s not sure she can recall feeling this alone. The odd crying fits haven’t helped. She’s tired and she can feel grief gnawing at her like a living thing. She tells herself if crying is the only thing she gets from it, she’s one of the lucky ones. So she tells herself the amulet makes her brave, because she doesn’t feel capable of bravery at the moment but if she has the amulet then she’s got no reason to be afraid. No matter how scared she might be.

“We need a healer,” Arthur yells.

“Bring her!” The Red Spear says. Arthur looks at her and shakes his head, “well every other healer is occupied!”

“Not her,” Arthur says.

“We need him alive, she—“

“Is right here,” Pym says, picking up her bag. She concentrates on the amulet, “and doesn’t need to be spoken for,” she looks at Arthur and sees him wavering, “I’m better than no healer.”

He caves and leads her to the tent. She tells herself there’s no need to be afraid of what’s on the other side. She is better than no healer and she’s wearing the amulet. Those are the two things that matter most. Arthur goes in first like a shield. But Pym forgets everything the moment she sees Squirrel. Bruised and cut and filthy but very much alive.

“Squirrel!”

“Pym!”

She’s never been so glad for a hug in her entire life. He clings to her tightly and she squeezes him back just as hard. They’re two people who have lost so much in the world. It amazes her that it gives anything back to them. She wants to question the kindness but the past months have taught her that she should savor the sweet when she can. So she focuses on hugging Squirrel. And only after a good long moment does she open her eyes to look at his cuts.

Only then does she see her patient.

“Get behind me!” She shoves the boy behind her, going for the only weapon she can find in the moment. The amulet makes her brave, but the anger is all her own. Especially for the monster sitting there, “you can’t have him!” She spits.

“It’s alright,” Squirrel says. Her fingers tighten on his shoulder, “Pym it’s okay! He isn’t going to hurt either of us!”

Squirrel slips out of her grasp and Pym’s heart leaps into her throat as he puts himself in between her and the monk. The monster. Pym looks to see Arthur standing with his hand on his sword, looking very much like he wants to gut the monk but not doing it. Why he isn’t, Pym doesn’t know. She knows Squirrel well enough to know there’s no danger he won’t go after. But Arthur’s hesitation makes her stop. When he’s confident that Pym isn’t going to gut the monk, Squirrel takes a few steps back and tugs at his sleeve. The hooded monk turns towards him.

“You should take your hood off so she can see your face,” he says.

There’s a soft sound of agreement and to her amazement the monk moves his hand from his side and reaches up, pushing back his hood. He looks terrible and a part of Pym is savagely glad. No matter how much younger he seems than she expected, no matter how tired and pale he looks, she’s glad he’s injured. She hopes all the Paladins and the Church and all of them are. His eyes close briefly and the healer in her recognizes the blood his fingertips have left on his skin. She’s more used to seeing the blood on him being absorbed by his cloak.

“He saved me,” Squirrel says.

“After he burned our home down,” Pym retorts, “and hunted us like animals,” she swallows, “I’m sorry you’re going to have to find someone else. Squirrel come with me.”

The monk gives Squirrel a look that Pym doesn’t like. Squirrel may be prone to danger, but he has no business being friends with a monster like that. She doesn’t care that people said the same thing about her friendship with Nimue, this isn’t the same thing. Nimue was not a murder, not like this man. Letting him bleed out is the least he deserves for all he’s taken. Squirrel should not be exchanging anything with him, including looks like that.

“No,” Squirrel says, “I’m not leaving him.”

“Arthur help me,” she says, motioning him in.

Squirrel looks between them and Pym knows he’s about to slip away. Logically she knows he shouldn’t be running around a battlefield, that it’s a terrible place for a child. But literally anywhere is better than in front of this monster. She’s ready to close off his escape route when instead of running, Squirrel plants himself firmly and draws himself up as much as his meager height will allow.

“He’s Fey,” he says.

“What?”

There’s the oddest ringing in her ears, Pym thinks she may faint. She’s certainly lost her mind because she swears she heard Squirrel tell her that the man in front of her is Fey. She’s always heard the rumors that he had some kind of supernatural ability but they were rumors. The Paladins didn’t want anything to do with the Fey, much less adopt one as one of their own. The only thing more insane would be one of them betraying everyone like that. Arthur is by her side to steady her but she shakes him off. If he’s Fey, that changes everything.

“Show me.”

“Look at his marks,” Squirrel says.

“They could be faked,” she shoots back.

“Dirt,” the monk rasps.

“What?”

Squirrel ducks down and fills his hands with the dirt, holding it up. The monk looks at her as he touches his fingertips to the dirt. Green covers his skin. It’s unmistakeable. The dirt turns dry and arid as some of the color comes back into his skin. He could fake the marks, he cannot fake that. She pinches the flesh of her arm to make sure she is awake. She prays that she isn’t but the pain in her arm tells her that she is. She doesn’t dare grasp the amulet but she focuses hard on it. The monk, this monster, he’s one of them. And if she leaves him to die then she will be no better than them. She shoves her knife into her apron pocket and moved forward.

“Take him somewhere safe,” she says to Arthur.

“No, I want to stay with him,” Squirrel says, “Pym let me stay!” Arthur shepherds the boy out, “Lancelot! I’ll come back for you!”

She ignores the shiver that goes down her spine as they vanish and focuses instead on undoing the fastening around the monk’s throat. She throws it back and looks at the wet patch on his stomach. She takes off his tunic and his strange undershirt, putting both of those aside. He doesn’t help and she doesn’t want him to. His skin is a patchwork of scars and bleeding wounds, all made worse by whatever garment he was wearing. If she hadn’t known he was Fey before, the punishment on his skin would have been a give away. She inspects the worst of the wounds, a deep cut in his side. Though it looks slightly healed.

“Lay back I need to sew this,” she says. He tries but she winds up needing to help him, “don’t thank me for this,” she says when his lips start to move, “I don’t want your gratitude.”

She threads her needle and stitches his skin back together. He doesn’t react. It’s unsettling because even the raiders react. Just a little. He lays perfectly still like he’s been trained to do it. Pym is just glad he’s not like the raider who tried to slug her when she was putting his nose back in place. She helps him sit up and walks behind him. She’s seen many horrors lately, many things that have made her stomach turn. She’s adjusted. She was starting to think nothing could make her feel sick.

The sight of that hateful symbol carved into the back of the monk’s head shows her how wrong she was.

The rest of him isn’t much better when she looks down, but it doesn’t make her skin crawl. She can deal with the wounds that hatchmark across his back. All of them are irritated and it looks as though he’s still got his horrid shirt on. It’s easier to focus on those instead of the back of his skull. She moves his clothes out of the way.

“Your name’s Lancelot?” She says.

“It was,” he says.

She rolls her eyes at his dramatics as she drags the nearby pail of water over. ‘It was’. A fittingly ridiculous answer for a fittingly ridiculous man. When he burned her home down, she was weaker than she is now. She doubts she could have lifted the bucket.

“Well, Lancelot, this is going to sting,” she says and dumps most of its contents across his torn flesh.

This time he isn’t so quiet.

She lets herself enjoy it, she can deal with the guilt later.

“Those weren’t life threatening,” he spits out.

“You haven’t seen them, have you?” She says, “whatever shirt you’re wearing got in them. They’re infected. I have to clean them out,” she hefts the bucket again “hold still.”

His fingers curl around the table as she cleans them out. There’s no bandaging them so the cleaning will have to do. His scalp looks fine and she doesn’t want to touch it unless she has to. She walks back around the table and sets the bucket down. He looks slightly less terrifying and slightly more like a drowned cat. Pym wets a cloth with what remains of the bucket and sets about cleaning the cuts on his face. When she gets close to the marks, he pulls back.

“Hold still,” she says, “I’ll touch them if you keep moving,” she sees the confusion in his face, “you don’t know anything about being a Fey.”

“No.”

“Good,” she says, finishing cleaning up the cut on his cheek.

She drops the cloth when she’s done and grabs the hateful shirt as well. She hasn’t gone through the trouble of saving a monster so that he can die on her. Fey help each other, no matter what. That doesn’t mean she relishes the idea of doing it again.

“I’ll need to check on them tomorrow,” she says, “don’t make me look for you.”

He nods and she moves towards the entrance. The amulet makes her brave. The amulet makes her brave enough to turn around. To walk like she is walking away from a bad dream and not a monster.

“Than—“ he begins.

The amulet makes her brave enough to whip around and stare the monster down.

“I said don’t thank me,” she snaps.

His mouth snaps shut.

She burns the shirt and doesn’t regret it.


	2. Chapter 2

His back is one big itch.

He deserves worse, he’s accustom to worse. The absence of it is what makes the itch unbearable. It’s an itch without purpose. It brings him no closer to salvation, it doesn’t take him closer to His grace. It does not show his repentance for his sins, for his blood, for his kind. No bricks are laid on the road to salvation with this discomfort. It simply is. He longs something to split the skin so he can have something real again. He dresses with what is left of his clothing. His swords and blades have largely been lost in keeping Squirrel safe. He remembers the punishment for losing a good blade. It wasn’t a mistake you made more than a handful of times. Now he almost wishes for the punishment so the world would make sense again.

He’s not sure if he’s allowed to leave the tent. Everything here is makeshift, he can’t tell if this is medical or if it serves some other purpose. It would be easy to slip away and he would be lying if he said the thought wasn’t tempting. Here at least he’s among Fey. It turns out the damn knight was correct, Fey respect the bonds of brotherhood. He has a level of protection here he’s not foolish enough to throw away, even if he wants very badly to be anywhere else. The loss of weapons, being surrounded by the Fey, hell even fighting the Paladins. All of it are things he’s pushed to the back of his mind. They are all the impure thoughts he’s struggled so hard to rise above. There’s no escaping the hellfire now, he supposes he should make his peace with it. And yet a part of him whispers that anyone who could do what they did to him a second time knew nothing of what was right or wrong.

“Lancelot!”

He opens the tent flap as Squirrel comes barreling though, his arm streaking out and managing to catch the boy before he goes face first into the corner of the table. He’s starting to get the sense that the boy is prone to this kind of behavior. He wouldn’t call him fearless, but he is very brave. His cuts and bruises have been cleaned. After days of riding with him, he knows he has no major injuries. Still he feels relieved seeing that he’s been tended to. He’s not someone who tends to people. Somehow defending the boy from the Trinity Guard was easier than keeping him alive on their relatively quiet journey. He understands blood and death and the chase. Not the quiet moments in between. Those he has always loathed. He’s not foolish enough to think these people are going to let him do what he is good at, simply because a boy says he saved him. The threat of more quiet moments looms large.

“I’m supposed to take you away from the fighting,” Squirrel says. He raises an eyebrow at the boy, “I’m supposed to go away, but I said I wouldn’t leave you.”

“It’s time for you to leave me,” he says.

“No it’s not,” Squirrel argues, “you saved me. I’m not going to leave you here to die.”

He’s not sure if Squirrel is referring to the skirmishes going on outside or if they are discussing his execution. Maybe the knight was wrong and brotherhood only extends so far. It doesn’t matter, the longer he stays here without a weapon the more danger he’s in. He can’t say if it will be an enemy because the only ally he’s certain he has here is the boy besides him, and after everything he won’t put him in harms way. Not like the others. The boy won’t be collateral damage as long as he draws breath into his lungs. If that condemns him to the hellfires, he can live with that.

“I cannot go walking out there,” he says.

“Yeah I guess people will see you,” Squirrel says, his brows drawing together, “can’t you just stay away from them? Since you can sense them?”

It’s an odd thing to hear about his gift talked about without any murderous intent. Though he imagines there are many here who would call his heart still beating a murderous thing. Just as he knows the loss of his brothers should bother him, he knows their hatred should as well. Both leave a longing for the emotions, but not the emotion itself. He thinks that God has just been exchanged for another thing he is meant to strive for without ever actually attaining. It is not an exchange he wants to make, he would prefer to strive for Grace. Emotions belong to the screaming monsters he has spent a lifetime dispatching. His control over them is what makes him different. The fact that he’s sitting in a Fey camp, not sure who is going to get to him first, that makes him the same.

“Lancelot?” He turns and is surprised to see Squirrel looking nervous, “are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he says. Squirrel looks unsure, “I was in my thoughts again.”

“Oh, right,” Squirrel perks up, “well we should go somewhere safer and then you can think all you want, I’ll find somewhere quiet.”

The boy accepts without questioning that he’s not a good conversationalist, though he supposes it’s usually easier to accept the truth. No-one has ever wanted to speak to him more than absolutely necessary. He’s not sure Squirrel has had more than a handful of necessary words. The rest is all just—something else. Silence is not his forte, neither is self preservation. The boy is lucky or blessed or both. But his acceptance is something far closer to the Grace and Brotherhood that he’s always been on the fringes of. It’s something pure. He cannot help but marvel at it.

“You go ahead, I will follow,” he says, “we shouldn’t be seen together,” Squirrel hesitates, “go.”

It’s difficult to track one when there are so many, but he picks him out. Spending so much time together over the past few days has made it easier. He slips around the rest of them easily enough, keeping distance between him and the boy. Squirrel scurries away from the few odd fights and leads him into the nearby woods. He’s not egotistical enough to think that no-one has seen him, but maybe they reason that he knows where they are anyway. If he was trying to keep from himself, the practical thing to do would be to cut his throat before they move camp. That and hope the Paladins didn’t find another to track. He’s not foolish enough to think he’s the only one or that he won’t be replaced. But he’s not prepared to use that to barter for his life. Not now anyway. Squirrel leads him to a clearing where there’s a handful of tents and slips into one. He waits a moment and then follows.

“We’re safe now,” Squirrel says.

The tent is a lot homier than the grander ones he’s used to sleeping in. The forest is closer now. It envelopes him. Dirt is dragged haphazardly in, everything is darker and enclosing. But it doesn’t feel claustrophobic. He doesn’t feel like a dark spot on an otherwise pristine white and red canvas. He needs to hide still but the places to do so are plentiful.

It feels almost like a place he belongs.

He ignores the shiver that runs through him. The call of home has been something he’s been taught is wrong. His Brothers are nowhere near and still he feels exposed. Waiting for punishment. Or maybe its God who is looking down at him. His punishment will be far greater than what his Brothers could inflict. The flesh is in service to the soul, but only God can punish the latter. He watches as Squirrel closes the front of the tent and then walks up to him fearlessly and presses food and a waterskin into his hands. He’s used to fasting, but his stomach rumbles at the food and he decides to risk it. If it is poisoned he can hope it will be a quick death. When the taste of fresh food and water hits his mouth, he thinks even if it’s a slow death it might be worth it.

“It’s good right?” Squirrel whispers, “I saved you the best parts,” he pauses, realizing the boy is sacrificing his own food, “I went back for more so they wouldn’t know.”

“What’s your favorite part?” He asks softly.

“The bread,” the boy says, “do you like it? Is it like the bread where you come from?”

“I don’t remember the bread where I come from,” he admits.

“Well try ours, maybe it can be your new bread.”

He doesn’t know how to feel when his hand wraps around the bread. He’s spent a lifetime being told bread is Holy. He’s spent a lifetime trying to feel the way that he sees the Brothers feel when they eat the body of their Lord. He’s pretended and strove for it but he’s never felt anything different. Not truly. He takes a corner and puts it on his tongue. Sweet explodes in his mouth. Sweet and light, like a memory of a memory. Like something he had once as a boy. It’s dark in the tent, there’s no reason for his eyes to close. It doesn’t help his mind to chase the memory that whispers on the edges of his mind as he chews. But he does it anyway. There’s nothing concrete, it’s all ghosts and whispers, but swallowing feels as though he’s taken something more than bread into him. He lets it linger in his mouth, not trusting anything. Including his own voice.

“It’s very good,” he says. He tears the bread in half and hands the bigger chunk to the boy, “here.”

Squirrel takes it with a bright smile that he can just make out in the shadows and drops down next to him. The shadows have always felt familiar, for the first time they feel like somewhere he wants to be. For the past few days this has been their routine. Though for the first time they are somewhere much closer to safe. For the boy anyway. He’s spent the past few days more or less awake the entire time, even he can tell that he needs rest. When Squirrel has curled up in his bedroll, he pulls the plate and cup closer. They’re makeshift weapons at best, but they are better than nothing.

He puts his feet to the ground so he can tell if someone is coming and draws his cloak closer.

For the first time in a long time, he sleeps.


	3. Chapter 3

“I need you to take me to your friend.”

Pym’s eyes snap open.

There’s just enough space in the tent to put something of a screen between them. Their resources are limited, there are so few tents she almost feels bad taking half of one. The screen she tacked up was to keep Squirrel from seeing her come in with blood on her. To think, she didn’t want to scare him. It was absolutely not to let him sneak his monster into their tent. Pym feels her heart in her throat and forces herself not to give in. She’s spent the past months sleeping with Raiders coming in and out of her bedroom at all hours. Being afraid of one monster, one man, isn’t something she will do. Besides she doesn’t have to be afraid since the weight of the amulet is heavy against her breastbone. Squirrel yawns and she hears him mumble something. She knows where he’s pointed.

“You didn’t tell me anyone else was in here.”

“She wasn’t when we came—“ she hears him being quieted.

She doesn’t know what possesses her to roll away and pull the blankets over her head. He’s been here the entire night. Maybe it’s the idea that he seems like the type who would hold off killing to make a spectacle. She hears the curtain pull back just slightly. She knows he’s looking at her. But only for a moment, then he lets the curtain fall back. She knows he’s aware she’s awake, he’d have to be a fool not to be, but he mentions nothing. He gives her some measure of privacy. Not that such a thing makes him good or anything. It just means he hasn’t put an arrow or a blade through her breast.

“Pym!”

Squirrel has no such manners.

But he’s also not a murderer so she has far less of a problem with him throwing himself through the curtain to jump on her. She catches a glimpse of the tent’s third occupant before the curtain closes and she’s able to focus on the boy on her sleeping roll. He doesn’t seem surprised she’s awake or maybe he just can’t tell. After everything she’s still surprised Squirrel has managed to remain somewhat himself. She feels as though everything in her has been scooped out. There’s no amulet to fix that.

“Good morning,” he says.

“Good morning to you too,” she replies, “were you going to tell me there was a man in our tent or where you going to let me find him on my own?” She pulls back the curtain to see him with his back to them, “I’ll be out to look at your back in a moment.”

“He needed to be somewhere safe. You said sleep was important,” she glare at having her own words thrown back at her, “besides not everyone here is like us.”

Us.

It’s a repulsive word to be said in connection with the man that brought them to this situation. She doesn’t want to have any fellowship with him. But she knows that it’s not up to her. He’s Fey. She can hate him all she wants but slitting his throat in the middle of the night will make her no better than the humans. No better than the Paladins. And even in her anger she knows that is something she doesn’t want. She quickly plaits her hair and gets up, rolling away her bedroll. She has one possession that hangs around her neck. But the idea of him seeing anything more about her isn’t one she’s comfortable with. She’s brave, not stupid. She’s already dressed and only takes a moment to make sure everything is where it should be before she moves past the curtain. His back is still towards her, she wishes that he wasn’t dressed so she could look without having to meet his eyes.

“There’s no room here, let’s go out there,” she says.

He slips out the back of the tent without a word. Pym gets the feeling this is going to be a frustratingly long day. At the very least the raiders had a cure for that, but she has to get the Red Spear alone long enough to ask. She wishes Dof were here. Not just for the liquor but for everything else as well. She wishes so many people were here, sometimes it’s a struggle to focus on the ones who are. She doesn’t just want to add to the list and not appreciate the living. She picks up the pail of water and comes around the back to where the monk is waiting.

“I can’t see through your cloak,” she says.

He takes it off. She’s surprised to see his face is red. She gets the impression that she wasn’t the only one not aware of other people in the tent last night. He’s a monk, she reminds herself. Monks take vows. Apparently murdering heathens is preferable to spending time with women. The irony is not lost on her. They’ve both kept their clothes on, she doesn’t know why he would be flustered at it. And she doesn’t think for a second that him being flustered means he isn’t dangerous. That there isn’t enough of her—of their kind’s blood on his hands to fill a river.

“Is this the first time you’ve spent the night with a woman?” She asks. Evidently he’s not embarrassed enough to shut down any route of conversation.

“I didn’t know there was someone else in there,” he says finally.

“Would that have stopped you?”

He gives her a hard look but she doesn’t waver. His eyes move across her features and she thinks he might be judging if she expects an answer. Her time with the raiders has taught her not to ask stupid or rhetorical questions. No matter how terrifying the person she’s speaking to may be. He doesn’t seem to have an answer. She breaks looking at him to inspect at his injuries. They’re healing fast. Even the one she sewed together at his hip. She’s not egotistical enough to think that it’s her handiwork that’s doing it.

“Have you healed yourself again or this still from yesterday?”

“From yesterday,” he says. She looks up to see he’s still closed off, but the warmth on his cheeks hasn’t faded.

“Are you embarrassed to heal yourself?” She asks, sitting back on her heels, “I need to take the stitches out before you heal over them,” she says, grabbing the small hooked blade, “why are you embarrassed about something useful? You didn’t seem terribly embarrassed about your tracking abilities. Or your murdering ones.”

“Those aren’t Fey.”

“You’re a Fey, isn’t everything you do Fey? Hold still.”

His weight shifts and he balances immediately. She braces her hand against his skin and slips through the first knot, pulling the thread through. Blood wells up in its wake, but the wound doesn’t open. She wants to be away from him, but she wants to honor her people. Their people. So she focuses on doing a good job. Maybe her ego is a bit stung from Arthur’s exchange earlier. She knows she’s not the best healer, but she does a decent job. She can be better. But she is always learning. She wipes the blood off his skin and stands up, motioning him down to look at his face.

“The tracking was different.”

“How so?”

“It was useful to the Church’s mission.”

“The mission to wipe out your own people?”

His eyes flick towards her and she meets them. If he wants her to be afraid he’ll have to take her back in time. That doesn’t seem to be one of his skills. She’s never seen one of his Folk. If she considers it, they were probably wiped out at well. The idea that she is one of the last Sky Folk sends ice through her veins. So many good and brave people dead, why she should outlive them is baffling. The monk moves his head and jerks her back to the present.

“Hold still,” she orders.

He does.

She focuses back on her work and ignores the thoughts that swirl in her head about herself. Fortunately his back gives her something else to focus on. The lines that hatch mark his back are puffy and an angry red. She touches the wet cloth to one and he goes back to being still and taut, which she is beginning to think is his way of expressing pain. She replaces the rag with the back of her fingertips. The skin is hot too.

“When’s the last time you healed yourself like that?” She asks, “was it since the first time you got these?”

“No.”

“You’re going to have to do it again,” she says, “some of these are infected.”

“I’ll take my chances,” he says, going for his garments.

“No you won’t,” she tells him.

He turns and gives her a look that makes her blood run cold. That’s the look that her kind see before they die. Before they are murdered by one of their own. It terrifies her. She tells herself the weight against her breast makes her brave, she can be terrified and rest assured she will be fine. She can be scared and alright. How many battles did the amulet see Dof through? She can survive a staring contest with this man. She can survive if he does worse. She looks around to see if Squirrel is nearby. She can’t see him, but she knows he is. So she forces her feet closer.

“You need to heal yourself because you’ve taken enough from Percival,” she says.

Emotions flash across her patients features but she holds firm. She’s gotten raiders to lay still while she’s pulled arrows out of them and snapped noses back into place. She can get this monk, this man, to put his hands in some earth and keep Squirrel from being hurt again. She raises her chin, even though she feels like cowering, and meets his gaze. Nothing about him softens, if anything he looks even more frustrated. Pym doubts he looked at his Paladin friends that way, so his issue is either that she’s a Fey or a woman. But they both know that she’s right. He bends down and picks up the bucket, tossing it’s contents aside.

“Hey!” She protests and he holds the bucket out to her.

“I need you to put earth in there,” he says.

“Why?” The frustrated look doesn’t go from his face, “can’t you control it?”

“No.”

Of course he can’t, she doesn’t know why she’s surprised. But she bends down all the same and scoops earth into the bucket. She stands up and looks at him. He gives her a hard look but she doesn’t budge.

“I’m not looking away, if you can’t control it I can at least observe how it works,” he doesn’t move, “I’ve already seen at least one of your other powers,” she points out.

He sighs and puts his hands on the dirt. Green spreads across his skin and arms and wraps around his back. It’s like the forest is embracing him. When it dissipates, his back is whole and the skin is pink and new. She touches the same raised mark and finds aside from some rapidly disappearing warmth, it’s like it was never broken. She looks back into the bucket. What was wet earth is down dry and pale. She picks it up between her fingers and rubs them together, looking at the fine residue in their wake.  
“What happens if the earth isn’t contained?” She asks. He looks down, bracing his hands against his thighs. The white ash stains them too, “you don’t know, do you?” He stands up, “aren’t you curious?”

“No,” he says and takes the bucket, depositing the ash in the wet dirt and mixing the two with his foot until it’s just another wet spot in the forest. He turns and hands her the bucket, “here.”

Her arms lock around the bucket. He pulls on his garments and gives her another look, though the glare has lost it’s murderous intent. He pulls his hood up even though now they all know his face. Not that it matters. He’s managed to track them so far.

“Where are you going?” She asks.

“Where am I supposed to be?” He retorts.

“How should I know?” She sputters and realizes that it may have been a question. She’s not a leader, she’s not someone who is supposed to be the last of her kind. But none of that is up to her. And everyone has more important things to do. “Here. Fill it,” she says, trying to inject the firmness into her voice that she’s only just learning, “don’t let anyone see you. Then wait in the tent.”

She expects him to mouth off.

Instead he takes the bucket and slips into the woods.

She realizes he wasn’t the mouthing off type. She’s brave, the amulet makes her brave. She repeats it to herself as she leans against the tree and tries to get her trembling under control. It feels as though she has run for miles, though she’s barely moved three feet. This entire thing has felt like she’s run and never stopped, like if she keeps going fast enough then nothing can catch her.

“They’re asking for a healer,” someone says over her shoulder.

She’s better than no healer at all.

She picks up her bag and goes to close the top when she realizes what’s missing. The knife. Panic and anger churn in her gut, though the logical side of her wonders what one slim knife can do. Then a voice reminds her of the ash and she doesn’t think that having no weapon would save them anyway, if that’s what he decides to do.

“Miss?”

“I’m coming,” she says, closing the top of her bag and deciding she’ll deal with the monk later.


	4. Chapter 4

The knife is less than ideal, but it does make him feel better.

It’s a short, curved blade but he can do enough with it. It’s a blade. Those are always better than the makeshift weapons he’s been hyperaware of since he realized he left his swords back at the camp. He knows it was foolish to take it, but surely it was no more foolish than showing his abilities. The entire morning has been one embarrassment after another. Too many quiet moments, that’s how the Beast comes in. He wishes he could go down and help in the fight, even if no-one trusts him. Maybe especially if no-one trusts him. It’s not like anyone ever has, but Father’s words were always enough to make them keep that at bay. There’s no Father here to protect him.

“Lancelot, wait up!”

He does not hurt children. He also does not associate with them. Even the healer girl seems to know when to be passingly afraid of him. Squirrel seems to have forgotten. Some part of him wants to remind him. Even as he clasps a hand over his shoulder to prevent the boy from going face first into yet another thing that will break his nose. He told the knight he didn’t hurt the little ones, the knight told him that was a lie. He doesn’t know if the boy is an exception or proof or a test to see if he meant what he said. He drops his hand and looks at him.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m getting more water,” he says.

It’s been a very long time since he’s had to explain anything. Much less something so mundane. Orders are given and he is expected to deliver, everything in between is just people either falling under his weapon or giving him a wide berth to do his job. Squirrel is full of questions, so many that he thinks he wasn’t asked any so they could all pile up and be spit out by one boy.

“I’ll come with you. How’s your back? Did Pym fix it? She’s becoming a good healer which is funny because she was never very good at it. Except the sewing bit, she’s always been good at that.”

Squirrel looks at him, he doesn’t know which part of that was a question and which part is something he expects an answer for. He hasn’t had to hold up his end of a conversation in a very long time. Not like this, not when things are so damn quiet. It may be the longest he’s gone without someone attempting to kill him. He always thought if the day came when he was actually accepted and people wished to speak to him as he saw them do around the fires, he would be dead or feeling His Grace or both. Not walking in the woods with a Fey with no intent to harm him. He doesn’t feel Grace in this place. And the relief he feels at not being surrounded by those who do makes him feel weak and ashamed. Makes him feel more like he did when he was Squirrel’s age.

“If they see us together you’ll be in trouble,” he says. Squirrel shrugs, “you’ll be ostracized.”

“People used to tell me that about being friends with Nimue too,” he says.

It’s a simple and logical answer, befitting a far too brave boy. It’s also a foreign thing to be directed towards him. The past several Fey he’s encountered have been all the things that his Brothers claimed to be. It’s not something he enjoys, it’s not a comparison he wants to make. He wants the world to make sense again. He wants to have a purpose. He’s an unused blade, something left to collect dust in one dungeon or another. The damn itch has moved from his back to his palms. His fingers keep moving towards a comforting weight that is no longer there.

“You should listen to them,” he says.

“No thanks,” Squirrel says.

He exhales through his nose and they continue towards the creek.

“Does your horse have a name?” Squirrel asks.

“Goliath”

“That's good, he’s a good horse,” he says, “I made sure he got fed with the others. He’s probably worried about you.”

“He’s a horse.”

“But he’s your horse—“ Squirrel stops as he turns abruptly.

“I don’t care,” he says.

He doesn’t care about the horse. It’s a tool, like his blades. Like everything else. It was given to him by his Father to do his job. It’s effectively stolen. The mount is a good one, he’s not surprised that even injured and with closer horses he went for the one he had been riding. But Squirrel is putting too much emphasis on the unseen bond. He’s used to companions trying to pick apart his bonds or put their assumptions on him, he’s just learned that it’s better for them not to know. Better to have no bonds, but even he cannot claim that. He doesn’t like the boy looking for further evidence of his humanity, he already feels exposed by what he’s shown him. For now things are quiet, but it’s only a matter of time before it’s used against him in one way or another. Squirrel meets his eyes defiantly, he doesn’t bother to look for emotion on his face. It seems like he already knows it’s there.

“Yes you do,” he says.

“Go back to the tent.”

“But you said I could come with you!”

“I didn’t, you followed me.”

He waits for Squirrel to turn and run but the boy doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He doesn’t know why he thought for a moment that he might. He thinks maybe telling the boy to come with him would get him to go back, but he doesn’t dare try. With his current run of luck Squirrel will probably take that as his consent and follow him everywhere. He’s been taught to let go of earthly needs and desires, but of the few needs he still has, a boy for a shadow is not one of them. He turns away from him and continues, not surprised when Squirrel scurries after him.

“So you can heal and you can sniff us out, what else can you do?”

It’s an innocent, annoying question. Asking his name is arguably a more dangerous one. It’s a question he’s been asked before in a jeering sort of way. The last time anyone asked and expected an answer, he was a boy. A scared child. Being around Squirrel opens the pathway to that time, to when he was that boy. It makes him think of Brother Salt, of the chair, of the questions. Of the secrets he’s managed to push so far into his mind that not telling them isn’t lying at all.

“Nothing,” he says.

“I don’t believe you,” Squirrel tells him, “you don’t have to tell me, I was just curious. You don’t seem to like to talk about anything,” he looks at him, “I saw the Paladins talking to each other.”

“I’ve been busy,” he says finally.

“Do you talk to your horse?” He keeps walking. For once Squirrel seems to understand what he’s saying. Or not saying. “Gawain used to talk to his horse. All the time,” he looks sad for a moment, “he cried after his horse died.”

Of course he did, that doesn’t surprise him. Gawain seems like the type. If he thinks back he can remember that battle where the steed fell. Only Gawain didn’t cry, he got absolutely furious. A lot of Brothers fell that day at his hand. If he thinks about it, that was a turning point in Gawain’s reputation. He thought it was just him being fearless, he didn’t think it was grief over the loss of a steed.

“What was the horses name?” He asks finally.

“Gringolet,” Squirrel says.

They fill the bucket. Lifting it feels odd, he’s prepared for the sting of skin across his back. The absolution that is supposed to accompany it. But there’s just whole flesh. The absence of pain feels like another blasphemy, though he supposes at this point he should learn not to count. Counting was always pointless anyway. He was demon born and would be demon returned. He just thought it would be by death not by choosing another way. He returns to the tent and sets the bucket down. Only a moment later to be put upon by the red head.

“Perfect timing,” she sighs and puts her hands in the water to scrub the blood.

“What happened?” Squirrel asks and can’t quite keep the shock from his voice.

“Someone’s horse got injured,” she says.

He’s not sure why his heart jumps. He immediately puts the panic aside. The knight may have been right about some things, that doesn’t mean he was right about everything.

“Whose horse?” Squirrel asks.

“Does it matter?” She asks slowly, looking between them, “one of the Raiders.”

“Was it the horse we came in on?”

“I didn’t see you come in,” she says in that same tone.

“I’ll go check!”

He catches the boy before he can go charging into the battlefield and the red head steps in front of his way as well, still dripping. Her panic is matched only by a familiar kind of frustration. Apparently he’s not the only one whose dealt with Squirrel’s behavior. Squirrel looks at her like she’s the one he needs to convince.

“Lancelot and me rode in on a horse. I fed him. We just want to make sure he’s alright.”

“You’re not going there,” she says, “either of you,” she looks between them and wipes across her forehead, “what does he look like?”

“He’s wearing black leather and he’s tall and dark,” Sauirrel says.

She nods and gives them both a look before walking off. It doesn’t take long for her to return, leading the horse. He plods after her obediently, he’s a well trained animal. If it came to it, he can’t say that he regrets taking him over the swords. Impractical as that might be. She stops and puts the reins behind her back and holds out her hand. It doesn’t take much to know what she is asking for. It’s clever, even he can admit that. He drops the blade into her hand and takes the reins from her. The horse breathes out and then bends down, sniffing but disinterested. He’s not surprised, he trained him not to be afraid of fire.

“Thank you,” he says.

“It’s no fault of his that he’s your horse,” she retorts, returning to the bucket to clean herself back up, “I have to get back out there,” she looks between the two of them, “stay by the tent,” she says, tying her hair back and heading off.

It feels like a lifetime ago that he dragged himself onto the horse and fled, but it also feels as though no time has passed at all. It’s all a strange muddle. There’s a fight raging nearby as they try to find their way out, but he still takes the saddle and chanfron off and eases the bit from his mouth, letting him graze. He knows he won’t go far. He’s glad to see him safe.

He still wishes he had the knife though.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s late by the time she gets back.

Again.

Pym wonders if she’s even capable of sleep anymore. The kind of sleep that actually makes you feel better. She doubts it. It’s also not something she needs to worry about at the moment. She can settle for the kind of sleep that lets her recover enough to not be completely useless. She has Squirrel back. That small piece of home is enough to get her past most things. There’s subtle differences when she gets back to the tent. The horse has his own bucket for one. And he’s out of all his black leather, he looks like almost any horse. A shiver still goes through her as she remembers the past times she’s seen him. She pushes past it, she refuses to spend more time afraid.

The water in her bucket has been changed. She scrubs the mess from her hands and wipes her face clean. She knows she’ll need to bath soon but at the moment it’s an exhausting idea. Being exhausted and not able to sleep is a terrible feeling. One of many, it seems like they all fight for her attention. When the horse brushes closer to her, she jumps. For a moment it feels like she’s back watching everything burn. She remembers the feeling of being dragged away by the Paladins in their red cloaks. She hears movement behind her and and she whips around. She knows it’s him but she can’t stop the gasp that escapes her when he straightens up and looks at her from the confines of his hood.

“Don’t do that,” she says, resting her hand against the horse to steady herself before remembering whose horse she’s touching and snatching her hand back. He acknowledges her with the barest dip of his head moves away from the tent, “where are you going?”

“To find somewhere to sleep,” he says.

A part of her wants him to do that, preferably somewhere near the edge of a high cliff. But the idea of him somewhere out in the woods makes her skin crawl. She trusts Arthur and the Spear to protect them, he’s done it so far. But she’s seen the monk find them. If he’s in the tent, she can at least have an idea of where he is. The thoughts collide exhaustingly and Pym orders them all into silence.

“Wait,” she says. He stops, “you should sleep in the tent,” he turns, “Squirrel will wonder where you are.”

“Is the boy going to be your reasoning for everything?” He asks.

Fury flashes through her.

“Well you’ve murdered everyone else,” she snaps.

He stiffens and she immediately regrets the words. Not just because arguing with him in a darkened forest seems like a monumentally bad idea. But also because that is not what the dead would want her to do. Well the Raiders who have died would, they’d probably also want her to hit him. But her Folk wouldn’t. Not if they knew what he was. All Fey are brothers, even the lost ones and the ostracized ones. She’s even asked what a Fey would have to do to lose that bond and been told that there’s nothing. It’s been her argument for why Nimue should be treated better. Is there an exception for genocide? She can’t remember and she feels incapable of deciding. The thought that she could decide and there’s a good chance that she wouldn’t have anyone older to argue with makes her throat tighten. But that she can stop. He doesn’t need to see any more weakness from her.

“You should sleep in the tent,” she repeats. The look he gives her is questioning but she has an answer, “I don’t trust you running around the woods.”

“I’m unarmed,” he points out.

“I’m not that stupid,” she shoots back.

This entire time she’s been drawing bravery from the amulet, but she doesn’t know if it works on situations like this. He could easily break her neck. She doesn’t put it past him. Maybe what’s keeping her alive is the affection he has for Squirrel. If it is, she doesn’t know how to feel about that. Lies and affection seem to be the only thing keeping her heart going, at least while she fumbles through learning how to be a good healer or at least useful. She wishes it was something else. Like bravery or cleverness. Her entire life seems to be about wishes when it’s bearable. Funny, because she never used to be someone with their head in the clouds. She can dream all she likes but here and now she has a monk to deal with and a friend to save.

“Go back in the tent,” she says with more bravery than she feels. He hesitates all the same, “what difference does it make? Those sheets are not going to protect me if you change your mind.”

“I’m not a boy,” he says.

The surprised sound that escapes her is jarringly loud, even the horse jerks his head up. It’s just comical, really. He’s not the joking type so she can’t even say it’s that. Though surely it must be. But when she looks at him all she sees is seriousness on his face.

“Have you ever slept near a woman?” She asks.

He looks down. She wonders if that same blush from before is back. If the problem isn’t guilt or any logical thing but the notion that he’s breaking some stupid rule that his murder friends put in place.

“You can’t be serious,” she says, “you burned down my village, you killed my friends and you kidnapped me—but sleeping near a woman is where you draw the line?” She laughs, “I’ve been sleeping in a hammock with half dead Raiders coming in and out at all hours thanks to you. So you are doing me no favors protecting my honor or virginity or whatever you think you’re doing. And you—you have no right to call yourself honorable to me. You don’t have anything to protect. And you have slept near a woman because we Fey don’t think like your Paladins. Mothers comfort their sons, brothers and sisters keep each other close. I put that sheet up so that Squirrel wouldn’t have to see me scrubbing blood from my hands because of your stupid Paladins!”

She sucks in a breath, realizing it may be the first time she’s spoken so much since she fled. Maybe the first time since, well, ever. The words just tumble out of her mouth. He deserves them, she knows he does. He knows she does. He can take his qualms about her being a woman and put them wherever he’s kept the rest of his warped ideals. He doesn’t retort, he looks down a few times but his eyes always seem to come back up to hers. It’s quiet between them. He’s braced for something and she realizes that she is too. She’s not a fighter, not that way. Not the way he is. But she wants to fight him. She wants to hit him until he brings back everything and the world is right again. Pym has never hated someone before, now the list is impossibly long.

“I should check on Squirrel,” she says.

“He’s fine. Still asleep.”

“How can you—“ she shudders, “do you wait until they’re asleep?”

Frustration comes across his features.

“I can hear him snoring,” he says, “there’s nothing Fey about it.”

She rubs between her eyebrows, not sure if that makes it better or worse. If she calms the blood pounding in her ears, she can make out the sound he’s talking about. It isn’t hard or some kind of magic, it’s just the sound of a boy snoring. The adrenaline is receding and she can think more clearly. Shouting at a man in the middle of the woods after a day of healing is not somewhere she ever thought she would be.

“I’m sorry for yelling,” she says, “you deserve worse, but today has been—“ she waves it off. It’s not as bad as three raids ago, “I’m tired,” she says finally. He offers just as much of a reaction as he did to her other words. It’s a sharp change after the raiders near constant flirtations and overtures, “do you carry on a lot of conversations?”  
“No,” he says and she thinks she sees annoyance flit across his features.

“You’ve been traveling with Squirrel for days—weeks,” she says, “you can’t have been silent the whole time,” he gives her a look, “or did he not stop talking long enough for you to get a word in.”

He glances away but she can read what he’s saying well enough. She imagines neither of them is terribly good at holding up their end of a conversation. Squirrel talks over people and the man in front of her seems not to know how to get a word in at all. What an odd pair it seems they make. But she can also see how they would balance each other out. In more ways than she’s comfortable with, if she’s being honest. The man has killed so many people, she’s not the only one whose suffered at his hands. She’s glad she has something she can fall back on, even if it’s the way of her people.

“Go back in the tent,” she says, motioning towards it, “you can’t sleep out here anyway, the ground is wet and you don’t touch anything green because God forbid you kill that.”

“I don’t kill it,” he corrects.

“What do you do then?” She asks, “absorb it?” He says nothing, “you’re going to have to answer these questions one day. You may be our brother but you still killed a lot of people.”

“Is it obvious I don’t touch the forrest?” He asks.

She think it might be the most words he’s said at one time. She thinks for a moment and then shrugs.

“I don’t know. I’ve been with the raiders, so, I spent a lot of time trying to observe them. To fit in,” he nods slightly, “I’m still observing. But people will be looking at you—yes,” she finishes, “it’s obvious. If you notice it.”

If he wasn’t a holy man, she thinks he’d curse. Again it occurs to her that the holy men have a very odd set of priorities. The monk looks down at his hands and flexes his fingers, as though he’s considering something. But the next moment he looks up at her and inclines his head sharply, then he turns and slips back into the tent. She’s left outside with only the nameless horse and a lot more questions. She looks over at the only thing that seems to actually know the man in the tent. Of course it would be something incapable of giving up his secrets, she shouldn’t expect anything less.

“You should get some sleep too,” she tells the animal, running her hand along its side. The horse snorts softly.

Pym resolves to find Arthur in the morning, she needs to speak to an adult before she loses her mind or her ability to hold a conversation. 


	6. Chapter 6

He hears Arthur coming.

Immediately he knows something is wrong, Arthur isn’t moving with a thought to stealth. He’s moving with speed, he’s running. His mind immediately flashes to the Paladins and he curses himself for losing the head start he had. It’s a foolish mistake and one he would not have made if he was alone. Then again, if he was alone he probably would not have been running at all. He rouses Squirrel who looks up at him blearily but without fear. It’s the absence of fear that shows him how much there used to be in the eyes of the children who he saw. It’s irrelevant now.

“Wake your friend,” he says and steps out to meet Arthur.

He takes in the fresh dirt, blood and ash on his face and clothes. He only manages to pause for a moment on the blade at his hip before he focuses on him. He’s used to people looking at him in various shades of hatred, often tempered by his usefulness. For a moment there’s a flash of true revulsion on Arthur’s face, which he can grudgingly admit he’s earned. But it’s gone the next moment as Pym and Squirrel step out.

“We need to leave,” he says, “the Paladins are here, we have to go before they box us in.”

“How do you know?” Squirrel questions.

“Because I saw someone in a bright red cloak on the hill top ride for the woods,” Arthur looks at him, “not the most subtle color.”

He had thought that when they moved the most logical thing would be to cut his throat so he couldn’t follow. It still is, but no-one seems to be thinking it as Pym grabs the nearest knot and gives it a sharp tug. The smell of Fey becomes sharper, sweeter as the magic drops and rolls the tent into something easier to carry. The green comes up the side of Pym’s neck and hands. It’s dark and tinged more blue than some of the Sky people, but that could be due to her coloring. He can practically see the blues of her veins. She picks up the bundle and her healer bag as the color recedes and looks at them.

“Are we going?” she says. They all turn to look at him. Pym move forward, picking up the horse’s saddle, “get the rest of it, I’ll help—“

He moves forward and takes the saddle from her. It takes only slightly longer to saddle the horse. The two of them have done it many times, but never as the ones who are running. It’s a feeling he doesn’t like, the horse doesn’t seem to care much either way. He straps the bundle down and looks at the pair of them.

“Do either of you know how to ride?”

“I do!” Squirrel says. He wonders if the boy means that or if he’s forgetting that he stayed on so long as he held him there.

“Come here,” he says. He cups his hands. Pym walks over and looks confused, but still puts her hand on the saddle, “put your foot in my hands,” he says. She puts one hand on his shoulder. The smell of her is all the more overpowering when she puts her hand on his shoulder. She shifts her weight and he pushes upwards, helping her swing her leg over the horse. He shortens the stirrups and Arthur comes around to do the other side, boosting Squirrel onto the horse in front of her, “just hold on,” he tells her.

“Is he good in the forest?” Arthur asks. He looks over at him and Arthur rolls his eyes, “forget I asked,” he moves past him to meet a Raider whose on horseback and leading two, “here,” he says, thrusting the reins at him. He hesitates, “are you coming with us or are you going back to them?”

He isn’t sure he should go with either of them for a moment. He’s good at hiding his emotions, or he thinks he has been. Instead Arthur pushes the reins into his hands. He’s killed Arthur’s friends and hurt him, but Arthur doesn’t strike him.

“Make up your mind when we aren’t running for our lives,” Arthur says.

He can live with that, he thinks. They’ll be moving for a while. Still plenty of time. He takes the reins from him and hauls himself onto the horse. For the first time it doesn’t hurt. Which is good because the mount feels vastly different. He’s momentarily annoyed, but if it’s at the change of mount or the fact that this is yet another unfamiliar thing in a long line of them is beyond him. Squirrel and Pym are looking at him warily and he knows that the hesitation wasn’t what they wanted to see. It’s Arthur who gives him a look of borderline understanding, even as the Red Spear gives the entire exchange one of disgust.

“Are we done talking about our manly feelings?” She demands, “some of us would like to live through this.”

“Coming, Milady,” Arthur says.

She rolls her eyes at him but doesn’t correct him.

“You,” she says, “you know how to evade them?”

His heart jumps at the prospect of being useful but Arthur clears his throat.

“We don’t need to evade them if we leave now,” Arthur says.

He knows the unspoken thing. Him helping isn’t an option, not yet. This is sickeningly familiar. He remembers being a young boy, hungry to prove he was more than a traitor and an orphan. Father kept his leash short, he made him wait until the time was right and there could be no question of his usefulness. But that waiting felt like it was driving him mad. Maybe it had. Though he knows the madness came before that. It came at the hands of the ones he served. He waited to serve them, now he realizes he has to wait to serve another.

“Stay in the forest,” Arthur says, “they don’t want to come through here without you. The longer we can keep them from seeing you, the better off we’ll be.”

He nods his understanding and looks over at his mount. The steed raises his head to look at him. He doesn’t know much in this strange morally grey world, but he knows the horse will follow him. So he presses into the flanks of the blonde and cream steed he’s riding. They don’t go deep into the forest, enough to give them cover but not enough for the horses to get hurt. His horse follows easily. This is not the most insane thing he’s asked of the animal. He glances back a few times to make sure the riders are still astride. But he doesn’t look back for long.

He’s so used to tracking prey that he can smell, it’s disorienting to not have that to fall back on.

He still manages to dodge the arrow though.

Forget the horse, he should have asked Arthur for a weapon. Instead he digs his heels into the sides of the mount he’s on. His own horse picks up pace in response. Pym’s sharp inhale tells him that there’s no need to be concerned about that. At least she’s smart enough not to scream. He has to open his senses to the Green to help him navigate, though it takes them deeper into the forest. It takes them away from the others. He pulls his horse up and focuses on the woods around them, using every sense he has to scan for his former Brothers. They are not subtle, but somehow they have both become crippled. If it’s a numbers game, he knows he’s outmatched.

He motions for silence and slips off the horse. It’s not as well trained, so he keeps the reins in his hand. It’s not as though he needs two in order to wield a weapon. He picks up a stone and looks for the clearest path through the trees. He throws it as hard as he can and hears it hit a good distance off. He listens for the sound of hooves or feet or arrows, but none come. He doesn’t trust they’re alone, but he trusts the Paladins haven’t found them yet. Waiting is not their forte. God shows the target and with his Grace they act. There’s no need to wait. He gets back on his mount and looks back at his two companions. Both are quiet and alert with their hoods up. For two Fey who have little horseback experience, neither looks as though they’re about to scream or fall off. He can be glad for small things that make life easier.

They push on into the thick of the woods. Eventually it becomes more difficult for the horses to navigate, especially the one that he’s riding. He dismounts. The next sound is surprisingly loud to his ears. He whips around just in time to see Pym land on the ground. Not injured, just awkward. He ignores the kick of adrenaline as she helps Squirrel down and nudges him forward, guiding the reins over the horses’ head. She has no problem following him, neither of them do. They form an odd sort of brigade. He leads them to where he knows the Brothers will not go, not without him. Not just to look on the off chance that they may find him.

“We’ll stop here,” he says.

“No, we need to get to the others,” Pym tells him, “they could be in trouble.”

“They would look for me over them,” he points out.

“So we should keep moving,” she says.

“Take the horse and go, I’ll point you where they are,” he says.

She looks at him quietly with that same fury in her eyes. If she starts to yell at him he’s going to have to silence her. It was a miracle that Squirrel stayed asleep, it’s not something he wants to test a second time.

“Can you track them?” Squirrel asks.

“Yes,” he says.

“For how long?”

“The trail is fresh,” he says. Squirrel gives him a look that he would ignore, except he needs them both to keep quiet, “A fortnight if it doesn’t rain,” he says finally, “it’s harder after that.”

He can pick it up for longer, but it gets harder. Usually though there are enough clues that he can find the starting point or the next step. With this there are a handful of them and they are all afraid. He doesn’t expect finding them to be very difficult. But he has no intention of being used. The Paladins know if they find him, they find the Fey. He’s lost that element of surprise since by now everyone knows that he left with the boy. It’s the first time they’d been so brazen with trying to find another of him, but he knows they had been looking. Subtly, carefully, but never actually finding another like him. Squirrel can’t sniff out other Fey, but he knows they would have tortured him to death to see it for themselves. He pushes the question of whether or not they have other boys in other camps out of his head. For now. There’s more pressing things to be concerned about.

“See? We’re fine,” Squirrel says, “you don’t have to be scared.”

When he glances at her, scared isn’t the word he’d use to describe Pym. Annoyed, angry, he’s sure if she could have kept the boy with her, she would have taken the horse and ran. Instead she glares and then looks around, as though looking for something. The horse doesn’t fight as she leads him to a willow. She looks back at them and motions them inside. It’s not the worst place to hide themselves. It takes her a moment to pull her fingers from the reins. When she does, she drops them to the ground and walks over to where the branches are. He watches as she runs her fingers through them. The air changes, the scent of her grows stronger as the vines creep up her flesh. The willow branches twist around themselves subtly. Not enough to change how they look, just enough that it’s not as simple to get in as walking through.

“It’s better than nothing,” she says, turning to face them, the vines on her skin slipping back.

“I said she was good at sewing,” Squirrel says, “hey, where are you going?”

“Stay here and keep quiet,” he says, trying to push away the frustration that it has to be said at all.

He steps out, the smell of Fey retreating slightly. He’s too attuned to it, he’s used to working on days old trails not standing next to one while they’re using their abilities. He’s used to pushing past all physical discomfort, but he needs his wits about him. It’s hard to have those when the smell is so overwhelming. He also needs to make sure he hasn’t turned them into sitting ducks. He walks back a ways but finds no evidence of the Paladins. He finds it strange that they didn’t come closer or pursue harder. The arrow that they fired means they want him dead, but they aren’t willing to do the deed. Not without him to lead them through.

He’s spent most of his life pushing aside the whisper that something is not right. With nothing to focus on, no orders to drive him, he forces himself to let the whisper past the walls he puts it behind. Something is wrong. Father wouldn’t let him go so easily. He’s surprised that Father wasn’t the one who shot the arrow, that he wasn’t there in the next breath. He’s old but that hasn’t stopped him from appearing out of the corner of his eye. When Father orders, everyone knows to obey. He’s used to being the enforcing hand, but he knows that Father was the power. Cutting off a hand doesn’t make one powerless. Not like this. He checks for any sign that there’s a trap being laid here but finds none. It feels as though they have given up in their pursuit of him through the woods.

It means nothing good.

He follows the lingering scent back to the hideout, taking care to let the branches brush against his cloak as he steps inside. There’s no need for the tent but Pym’s taken out the two bedrolls. The horses are gazing nearby. Neither of them have been foolish enough to start a fire. Everything is as good as it can be, under the circumstances. It’s foreign to come back to somewhere and not have the hushed conversation die out. He doesn’t remember the last time he approached a gathering, even of just two. He eases himself down. Squirrel hands him one of the rolls. He does it without thinking.

He glances over to see Pym watching. She’s older, she understands the significance behind breaking bread with other Folk. For all her annoyance, she doesn’t try to stop him. She reaches over and passes him the waterskin. It’s survival, he’s sure. But he’s gone longer without food and it hasn’t thrown him off his abilities. He doesn’t voice it though.

The three of them sit in their makeshift hideout and eat in silence as the sky turns dark.


	7. Chapter 7

She’s aware that he keeps looking at her.

Pym’s spent a lot of time ignoring the looks the Raiders gave her. She’s spent a lot of time ignoring the looks that people give her in general. But before it was usually because of the company she kept. It wasn’t like that. The Raiders looked at her like a fresh piece of meat. Like they were hungry for her. The Red Spear didn’t allow anything of that sort and she knows nothing would have happened. Her discomfort at their looks wasn’t as important as being away from the Paladins. It’s odd when she thinks about it, whenever she’s been at the end of those kinds of looks she’s always had someone to have her back. They don’t bother her as much when she has that.

Squirrel has her back, but he only comes midway up it. On the other hand their companion towers over both of them. The way he keeps looking at her is somewhere between the Raiders and her Folk. It’s disgust and curiosity all wrapped up in one. Like she’s repulsive and enticing at the same time. It makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She hasn’t changed her clothes in days, there shouldn’t be anything enticing about her. Certainly not for someone who had a problem being in the same tent as her while they were asleep. She knows he wouldn’t hurt Squirrel so she feels alright getting up when the boy is asleep and going over to where the horses are. They ignore her at least.

“You should try to sleep,” he says.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” She asks.

He looks surprised at her directness, but if every moment could be their last she refuses to go with things unsaid. She’s so tired of pushing everything aside to focus on surviving. It’s clear that her life will be about nothing else for the foreseeable future and she knows that shoving things down and aside isn’t helping. She watched Nimue do that with her emotions. She’s nothing compared to her friend, she knows that, but the principal is the same. So she fixes him with a look. He’s already broken bread with them, he doesn’t get to do that and stare at her that way. He doesn’t stop looking at her or fumble with some kind of nonsense. The look in his eyes doesn’t go away.

“You keep looking at me like I’m a piece of meat,” she says, “like you’re doing now. Why?”

“Using your powers makes the scent heightened,” he says. Heightened. Her throat tightens with some combination of anger and fear as she considers how many desperate Fey used their abilities to try and flee. How that made it easier for him to find them, “I didn’t realize,” he stops for a moment, “I’m sorry.”

She wants to tell him to save his apologies for someone else. But anyone else he could have apologized to is dead. She’s sure for as long as she lives, she’ll never understand how she’s the one still here. She may be the first or second person he’s ever apologized to. She’s not even sure he knows what it means or if she has any right to be upset at the way he’s looking at her. Immediately she kicks herself for the last bit. He’s not a Raider, he’s not her ticket to still having a pulse at the end of this. He’s done monstrous things and they have been thrown together by fate and poor choices. And Squirrel. She has every right to be upset at him staring at her like a piece of meat.

“You can’t do that,” she says. He looks confused, “you can’t look at them like that,” she elaborates, “I’ve been around Raiders, the others haven’t.”

“I wouldn’t—“ he begins.

“You burned down my village,” she cuts in, “I think we can agree your celibacy doesn’t make you better than them.”

He exhales sharply and she can tell he’s frustrated. She doesn’t know if he’s getting better at showing his emotions or if she’s getting better at reading them. Neither makes her feel good about the situation. She knows she’s right. Here, at long last, is something familiar. It’s like standing with Nimue again. But worse. Nimue couldn’t help who she was. What she could do. She tried again and again to rewrite herself but it never worked. Pym remembers her sadness and her frustration, her longing to fit in. But every attempt at what she could change was thwarted one way or another. Until there was no point in trying. His situation is so much worse. Nimue’s power was greater but it was stigma that did her in for everyone. His power is less and Pym isn’t sure it’ll be stigma if you did the things that he’s done. She watches his frustration and then like a veil thrown over his face, he looks up at her with a blank expression that’s almost more unnerving.

“That’s worse,” she says. It drop, thankfully. And isn’t replaced by the hungry look he’s been wearing. Just that frustration she sees when Squirrel asks too many questions. It doesn’t take a genius to know how stupid he thinks this is when he turns away. “You’re going to have to learn,” she tells him.

“We need to stay alive,” he says.

“That’s just an excuse,” she points out, “we’re alive right now. You don’t know how to act around Fey Folk,” he glowers at her, “you can’t glare every time someone says something you find stupid. No-one will want to talk to you.”

“That’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” she says, “the last time I escaped from your Brothers I got myself onto a boat and learned to be a healer. We’re hiding out in the woods,” he just looks at her, “if you talk to people, they’ll help you.”

That seems to make sense to him. At the very least the glare goes and he doesn’t look at her like she’s speaking drivel. She’s gotten through to him somehow. It might be the most magical thing she’s seen in days. It’s certainly the second most miraculous. Nothing will be more miraculous than Squirrel coming back. But getting through to the monk in front of her about something other than keeping all his blood inside him comes very close. She would say that it should be obvious, but she’s getting the sense that he truly has no idea how to navigate a world without his mission and his Paladins.

She wishes she didn’t understand that lost feeling so well.

It’s his fault she knows what it feels like at all. She refuses to entertain the idea of being sympathetic to the person who caused it. But she understands that feeling all the same. She’s lucky enough to have gotten to go back to what’s left of her home. She at least had the hope of return. She doesn’t know if he has that. Or what it would take to get his brothers to accept him again. She’s not sympathetic and some terrible part of her says that he deserves that and worse. But she refuses to dishonor her ways by stooping to that level.

“I don’t enjoy conversation,” he says finally.

“You were a Fey among Paladins, I can’t imagine they had a lot to say to you,” she points out. He presses his lips together but they both know she’s right.

“I was useful,” he says.

“I was useful to the Raiders,” she points out, “but they don’t hate the Fey like your Paladins,” she considers him for a moment, “which I guess I also have you to thank for.”

Anyone kind to the Fey does so because they have been wronged by the Paladins. She doesn’t like the notion of having any gratitude towards him, but she knows things aren’t that simple. And they will get more complicated the more time they spend together. Or that he spends with Squirrel. It’s all complicated but he hasn’t told her to be quiet or any of the practical things that she expects to come out of his mouth. She thinks about Dof and ignores the urge to turn away again. His look has softened slightly. It’s not kind but she’s no longer a piece of meat ready to be grilled.

“That’s a better look,” she says.

“Why are you helping me?” He asks.

“Fey Folk help each other,” she says. He gives her a questioning look that she’s tempted to ignore, “Squirrel likes you. I know what it’s like to be friends with someone that everyone else considers a monster. He deserves better.”

“You stood by her,” he says, “even after you learned what she was?”

  
“We were friends,” she says, “I didn’t like her just for her usefulness,” she looks at him carefully, “did you have friends? With the ones you left?”

“No.”

She wants to say that they didn’t seem like the friendship type but that’s not entirely true. They didn’t seem like the friendship with Fey type. He really was very useful to them. That much is very clear. She wishes she didn’t know what kind of usefulness it took for a Fey to not be killed by people charged by a god to do so. She looks at the horses who are calm and wonders how they can be that way at a time like this. She half expected his horse to sniff her out like he did. Though she knows that’s a stupid thought since a horse is just a horse.

“Did you use your knots to escape?”

Under any other circumstances, she thinks she’d laugh at the awkward overture. Given the current ones, she turns around and looks at him. It’s truly mind boggling that a man who can burned down villages and track by scent will also go pink in the cheeks when faced with the prospect of an uncomfortable, non-violent interaction with a woman. Pym isn’t sure what she believes in these days, but she has trouble believing that any god who would create those kind of skewed priorities is real. It’s probably just a bunch of old men sitting around and doing whatever they want. Her instinct is to tell him that she doesn’t want to talk about escaping, but he’s already seen her do it, so she supposes it’s not important now.

“Yes,” she says, “I was too far away to untie anyone else without them seeing.”

He gives the barest nod of acknowledgement and she tries to shove the memory from her mind. She doesn’t want to think about it. About sitting there, about untying herself, about the slight shake from the other Fey who were almost within her grasp. She had no choice, she knows that, she doesn’t even really remember dropping and fleeing. But she knows that the memory is horrible and guilt laced. It’s not one she can allow to cripple her, not while she’s away from anything safe.

“Does your horse have a name?”

He looks so surprised at the question it’s almost comical. She wants to ask any number of cruel questions about his family, his home, anything to make him hurt. But then she would be no better. Asking cruel questions doesn’t make her worse, not by a long shot, but it makes her someone she doesn’t want to be.

“Goliath,” he says finally.

“Did you name him that?” He nods, “why?”

“He was small,” he says, “Goliath was a giant.”

She has trouble thinking about him with a small foal. But she’s aware that he’s probably spent a lifetime with people’s cast offs and second choices. She runs her hand along the horse. His master may be terrible at anything nonviolent but she gets an ear flick out of him and he raises his head to inspect her, butting her hand with his nose before returning to grazing. It’s the most civil and pleasant interaction she’s had with anyone in days, all things considered. But maybe that’s what happens after you ride someone.

“Lancelot and Goliath,” she says aloud.

“The story was David and Goliath,” he tells her.

She is starting to get the feeling that Lancelot ruins conversations just by opening his mouth. It’s like watching a young one try to walk. One step forward and then they are on the ground in a tangle of limbs and sobs. Getting to that second step without someone to hold you up is never easy.

“So what happens in the story?” He gives her a questioning look.

“It’s from the Bible,” he says, almost like a warning.

With more bravado than she feels, she shrugs. She doesn’t want to hear stories from a hateful book that could justify the slaughter of everyone she’s known and loved—justify her own slaughter. But if he’s not good at conversing, perhaps he has some talent for telling a story.

“Tell it to me,” she says.


	8. Chapter 8

“Why are you talking so much? Aren’t we supposed to be hiding?”

He glances over at Squirrel who gives him a look that’s part questioning and part judgement. Given the fact that words don’t seem to stop spilling out of Squirrel’s mouth, he wonders how he can say anyone is talking too much. He does realize there’s an itch in his throat though, he knows he’s been using his voice more. He hates to admit that the healer has a point. A few words with Gwain had gotten him more information and clarity than years of silence. Father, even the boy, all of that had changed by a simple exchange of words. If he thinks back, farther back than he ever likes to, it was a few simple words that saved his life.

“Yes,” he says.

“Yes to what?”

“He needs the practice,” Pym says.

“What are you practicing for?”

“Enough,” he cuts in. Mercifully Squirrel clamps his mouth shut. But the fear that usually follows the order doesn’t appear on his face. The boy looks over at the healer for an explanation. She glances at him and he cannot take this awkward exchange for another moment, “I’m checking on the horses,” he says. 

“You’re talking a lot again,” Squirrel points out as he gets up to go over to more silent company.

He hears the two of them talking in a low tone but he doesn’t pay attention for what they’re saying, only the volume of their voices. They can’t stay here much longer, but he needs to have a direction for where they are going. The horse raises his head and looks at him as he walks by and looks out at the forest. It’s quiet still. The daylight dapples the ground but there’s so much greenery it doesn’t make it through. Between that and the quiet and the position of being hunted or hated on all sides, he feels the beginnings of panic. He refuses to give into it. He’s covered, he’s good enough that there is little chance of him accidentally touching anything. And he has enough bumps and bruises to buy him time if he does, even if his hairshirt is gone and the marks on his back have been healed.

He knows what he needs to do, though he’s loathed to ask.

He walks back over to where the two of them are sitting and ignores the sharp, questioning look that the boy gives him.

“I need the knife.”

She looks around as though hoping that someone will be there. Whether it’s to deny him or to give her guidance, he doesn’t know. But no-one is there. It’s the three of them and the choice is hers alone. He can work with no weapons, the knife probably won’t even do much against a group of heavily armed brothers. But a knife is better than no blade at all. He sees Squirrel open his mouth and he fixes the boy with a look, giving him a slight shake of his head. Squirrel looks disappointed and he wonders what the boy would do if he asked. He’s not sure he wants to find out. Instead he focuses back on her. He half expects her to say no and though he knows there’s any number of ways he could take the blade, he knows that them working together is in his best interest. She gets to her feet and walks over to her bedroll, pulling it back and pulling out a pulling out a roll of cloth. She wipes the dirt off and hands it to him.

“Here,” she says, “there’s more options in there, something might make more sense.”

He opens it.

She’s right.

There’s several small knives, a few hooked ones and a few bigger ones. They’re a cobbled together set, none of the uniformity that the Church stresses. They’re well worn around the handles but cared for. The blades are good. Not good enough to save the life of whoever had them first, but good enough for what he needs. The serrated one he can think of several uses for, but it won’t be terribly good in combat. He picks two roughly the same size that he can use and a few of the smaller ones. He takes the hooked one for good measure. He leaves the rest for her and she bundles it up. Nothing else from her healer bag is out, he can appreciate her practicality.

“Wish we’d thought to pick up your swords,” Squirrel says.

He hasn’t wished for anything so badly since he was much younger and far more foolish. But he learned to fight without a sword first, perhaps there’s justice in his rebirth coming with a blade as well. He doesn’t know if he’s earned such a thing. It doesn’t matter at the moment anyway. He’s got more important things that need attending to. Like getting them all out safely. With any luck he’ll be able to get them past his Brothers and back with the main group. Where he goes from there is yet to be seen. He doesn’t want anything to happen to either of the Fey sitting near him, but even he knows that bringing them back alive and well will count in his favor. Moreso than any conversation will anyway.

“How are you going to pick up the trail?” Pym asks.

“I marked the route when I looked yesterday,” he says.

“Pinch your nose,” Pym advises him and walks over to the branches, passing her hand over them.

He ignores her advice. Fey use this easily, he’ll need to learn not to seem like he’s about to hunt them if he has any hope of acclimatizing. It’s still hard not to when her smell gets stronger as the vines spread across her skin. The willow’s shift is imperceptible but when the branches hang loose, he knows it’s time to go. He hands her the horse’s reins. He’s the easier mount to lead. He takes the other and they depart the tree. They’re all silent as he leads them near to where the trail started. It’s almost laughably easy to pick up again. But the forest is lighter. They’re more exposed. The hole in the tree where the arrow was is a reminder of what they’re up against. His gut tells him there’s no way that they just cleared the area and moved on.

He moves them away from the trail. The forest isn’t as thick as he wishes, but it’s thicker than where the group rode through. Traveling with companions isn’t new to him, but it’s different from traveling with the Brothers. They had all agreed to die for the same cause. Believed in the same thing. Forfeited their lives to God. The Fey he’s traveling with don’t believe in his God, they would like to not die. It’s a sharp and uncomfortable distinction. He moves them along the trail with a jerk of his head. He chooses speed over looking over his shoulder to make sure they are alright. His mount knows to watch his back. Of everyone, he trusts him the most. It’s a small reliability. The horse he’s leading on the other hand, he has no idea of whether or not it will be good in a fight.

It doesn’t take long to find out.

He sees the flash of red a moment before his steed rips himself free of Pym and closes the distance. That spooks the pale horse he’s holding. It’s utter chaos. He’s not sure if that was Goliath’s intention but it certainly helps. The Paladins are not expecting it. He dispatches the two he sees with bows with the smaller blades, sending their horses into the chaos. He counts three without range weapons, who charge at him simultaneously. Like they’ve been taught. He’s probably been involved somehow since they all look concerned. That doesn’t buy them anything except a quick death. The knives are good and sharp, but he only uses them for the first Brother. All their blades are uniform and interchangeable. Taking his and cutting down the other two is easy. He waits for shouts of horror or cries of additional members, but it’s not surprising they left a small party to wait for him.

The rest of the horses are gone but Goliath has herded the blonde one back to them. He quickly takes the weapons from the bodies and retrieves the knives. Only then does he look around for his companions. Pym drops down from the tree and Squirrel follows. It’s a clever hiding place. Neither looks particularly horrified at his actions. He doesn’t know if that’s hatred of the Brotherhood, what they’ve since since their village burned or something else.

“I can shoot,” Squirrel whispers to him. He glances at Pym and then shakes his head, “come on—“

“Quiet.”

Squirrel shuts up.

He distributes the extra weapons between the horses. Being armed makes him feel better, though he knows not to let his guard down just because of that. Feeling better is relative, he knows that the horses he sent ahead will warn them of their arrival. They either have to be faster or they have to be unpredictable and he’s not willing to lose the chance to go into the next fight armed. Unpredictable will have to do. He moves them down the trail, listening for the sound of the horses or his Brothers. He hears neither. They had a good head start but it becomes clear that isn’t what is going on. Not when the gouge of frantic hoof prints eases but the forest remains dead quiet. They’re too far in to get out of whatever trap has been laid for them. Their only option is forward now. He turns back to Pym and Squirrel and Goliath.

“Get on,” he says, cupping his hands into a step so Pym can swing herself into the saddle.

He lifts Squirrel on as well. If nothing else Goliath will keep them safe. He still motions for silence from both of them. He doesn’t mount his own steed. He needs the Brothers to think he’s the easier target, without letting them know that he’s aware of what they’re doing. He can think of several formations they’ve been trained in, but without him navigating he knows their placement will be less than ideal. He plans to use that to his advantage. He just needs one or all of them to get overzealous and reveal where they are. He sees the freshly turned over leaves and wonders if they think he’s stupid enough to fall for that trap or if they’re trying to make him so egotistical he makes a simple mistake. His ears pick up the sound of something in the trees. But it’s not red he sees. It’s black.

He should have known the Trinity Guard would be there.

The arrows come from all sides. He hears Goliath thunder off as the horse he’s holding whinnies in alarm or pain or some combination of the two. He swings himself into the saddle and ignores the fire that stings his arm as the arrow cuts him. Another finds it’s way into his shoulder blade. Neither matter as he gets the horse to move. They don’t fear him like his Brothers, though he wishes sorely that they did. They also aren’t as easy to lose or easy to spot. He’s struck them down before and he plans to do it again, but at the moment all he can do is run as they coordinate their strikes. The trap is well done, he can admit that much. They’ve staggered themselves so his attempts at flight are blocked by a hail of arrows. They’re boxed in. Goliath hasn’t gotten much farther, though he’s dodged the arrows better. Their small window when the archers reload is too small to make a break for it. They’re on borrowed time.

There’s nothing else to do.

He shoves aside everything that tells him not to, they’re past that now. He’s already hunted, already surrounded on all sides. No-one can protect him. Not from the Church. When he goes for the tree, another arrow hits him but that doesn’t matter. He ignores the pain and the sound that Pym can’t quite contain. He dismounts and whether he drops from the arrows or the knowledge of what he needs to do, he can’t say. Just that his knees hit the earth and he falls forward onto his hands.

It’s not healing.

Not really.

It’s connecting to the energy, it’s agitating it, it’s drawing on it. Until it’s a cascade. His injuries heal but he doesn’t move his hands. He continues to connect and draw and change. The green that goes up his arms and across his body connects him to the living energy. He’s not sure when the turning point is, he doesn’t remember or maybe he’s never learned. But he keeps the connection past the point he’s always cut it off at.

It takes only a few heartbeats past that before the green fire rips up the tree.

It spreads to all of the trees, the wood cracking in it’s wake. It’s so hot it takes a moment until the smoke starts. Like the wound he’s created is so deep it takes a moment to start to bleed. But once the bleeding starts it’s impossible to stop. He’s certain most of them have died in the blaze or when the trees erupted, the green fire has never cared about sparing a life. They’re all human so it takes a moment to smell the burning flesh over the smell of burning wood. He rips his hands free of the roots. The arrows throw him off balance but he ignores them to pick up Pym and Squirrel’s scent. He’s tried to train Goliath for this, but it seems that the training wasn’t terribly effective or Pym rightfully spurred him on. He tracks them easily, though it takes longer than he wishes to get past the smoke. The trail wraps around a thick tree and he rounds it, nearly meeting the end of the sword Pym is holding like her life depends on it.

He wouldn’t blame her for not lowering it.

He’s relieved when she does.

“You have arrows in your back,” she says and her voice is oddly controlled. He nods. He looks around her to see Squirrel who has his eyes shut and his ears plugged, “it’s alright,” she says, raising her voice. He opens his eyes.

“You’re hurt,” Squirrel says.

“She’ll get the arrows out,” he says.

“How come you didn’t—ow!” He looks over at Pym.

“Now’s not the time,” she says, “I don’t want to know what’s coming next,” she undoes the knot she’s made in Goliath’s reins, “we need to get out of here.”

“When’s the time?” Squirrel asks.

“Later,” he says, even though some long forgotten voice tells him to shut up. That no-one outside of their Folk is to know about what he just did, “we’ll talk later.”


	9. Chapter 9

It seems like a lifetime ago she was trying to pull arrows out of a squirming Raider.

Lancelot doesn’t squirm. But the arrows have been healed into him. It’s not as easy as pulling them out, if pulling them out could be described as easy. She’s got no choice but to cut around them to get them out. She at least has Squirrel move where he can’t see. She almost asks if Lancelot wants something to bite down on but then she looks at the back of his head with the healed over cross cut into his skin and sets to work.

“Can you do anything else?” Squirrel asks.

“Squirrel,” she cuts in, “that’s not—“

“No,” he cuts her off. She glares at the back of his head before resuming his work, “you’ve seen it all.”

“How does it work?”

“Percival,” she cuts in. Both of them turn to look at her. She flattens her hand to stop Lancelot from turning more and ignores Squirrel’s eyeball at his real name, “asking Folk what they can do when they aren’t part of your Clan is rude,” she explains, “it’s not something we ask one another lightly.”

“That’s a dumb rule,” Squirrel says.

“You’ve seen me do it,” Lancelot points out.

“I have a knife in your back,” Pym says because she has to say something if she’s going to be dealing with Squirrel who doesn’t care about rules and Lancelot who seems to be constantly breaking them, “stop twisting.”

He stiffens which makes it easier to work the knife around the arrow at least. She steadies her hand against his shoulder, judges the angle and pulls. She’s not stupid enough to think she’s gotten so much better it doesn’t hurt, but the soft grunt he gives is a far cry from the wails and swears she’s used to getting. She tosses the arrow aside and turns to the one higher up on his shoulder, letting the lower one bleed for the moment. This one is at a slightly different angle, it takes a deeper cut and more effort to pull out. She doesn’t even have to tell him to put his hands in the earth this time. It turns to ash quickly as he uses his powers to heal himself. It’s only when he pulls his hands out that she realizes she’s been holding her breath the entire time.

“How does that turn into Fey Fire?” Squirrel asks.

It’s a rude question but she’s glad he does.

He gets to his feet silently and walks a few paces away to a patch of weeds. Irrationally she wants to call him back, even as the rest of her watches with interest as he presses his hand to it. One moment there’s nothing and the next it’s covered in a bright green fire. Squirrel sidesteps her when she tries to drag him back and runs over to where Lancelot is crouched with his hand in the flame. She approaches carefully. It’s hot, is the first thing she’s aware of, the kind of hot that makes it difficult to breathe. It’s hard to look at as well. The longer it burns the more green it gets, but it makes her eyes water to look at it. Squirrel seems to be having the same reaction. Both of them have to look away but the brightness doesn’t seem to affect him in the same way.

“It’s the energy from the plants,” he says, “if I connect to it long enough and don’t have somewhere to channel it, I can create this.”

“Can you turn it off?” Squirrel asks, “I can’t see.”

Lancelot stands up. When he does, the fire pulls up around his hand. Like it’s going back inside of him. Smoke mushrooms out from the now dead weed patch and the whole thing collapses to the ground in a pile of ash. Pym pulls her cloak up around her face as the smoke dissipates. When it does, Lancelot is nearby. Because he can smell them, she remembers. It makes sense that his kind would need to find each other if they had to use what he can do regularly. She’s never seen smoke so thick, but then again she’s never seen the legendary Fire. It’s supposed to have been lost to time. Nimue told her about the Leper King who had the last of it, about how her father wanted to destroy the sword with it. About how that failed. Fire capable of destroying a magic sword, the only thing capable of doing it. She thinks of the heat and the chaos and the cracking trees, how for a moment she thought they were dead. How easy it would have been.

“You didn’t tell them,” she realizes aloud.

Both of them look at her. Realization sparks in Squirrel’s eyes while something much closer to guilt is written all over Lancelot. There’s no pride in not telling them, she realizes. Lancelot hasn’t seemed particularly sorry for his past deeds. This is the tent sharing all over again. This lie means something to him. In his warped and hypocritical way of thinking, not telling his brothers is wrong. There isn’t any pride in what he can do or how many he may have inadvertently saved. There is just the shame of keeping a secret. Of withholding a tool. Her stomach clenches at the thought of how easy it would be to wipe out a village with this. It didn’t seem difficult for him to do it without it, but she and Squirrel are proof that stragglers can escape. They’re like the horses than ran ahead. She doesn’t think anything could survive what he did to the black robed ones.

“No,” he says simply.

“Why not?” She asks, aware it sounds more like a challenge than a question, “and why didn’t you use it before? Why did you need my knives when you could do—“ the can hear the crack of the trees in her ears still, “that?”

“It’s an Ash Folk secret,” he says.

“You didn’t seem to have a problem telling them the rest of your kinds secrets,” she shoots back. He looks down, “why that one?” Squirrel tugs at her cloak and she shakes him off, pushing him back. She dimly realizes she’s moved forward to put herself in between the two of them, but she doesn’t stop, “you could have wiped out our entire people with that. Not just sniffed them out like some kind of rabid dog.”

His throat moves and his eyes go to the patch of ash. She doesn’t shy away from the thought that is what her home could look like. Her home and so many others. She’s angry, she realizes. She doesn’t want the spark of hope she sees on Squirrels face. She doesn’t want to think that he’s had something good in him this entire time. That not turning her home and everyone she cared about into fine white ash is something she should be grateful for. She doesn’t care about the amulet all of a sudden, or rather the only thing she can think of is it lying on the pile of ash she would be reduced to if he did that to her.

“It saved my life,” he says finally, “I didn’t need to tell them anything else.”

“But you could have, later on. And you didn’t. Why?”

“Because—“

“Because?”

“Because it’s not for anyone but the Ash Folk,” he snaps and the genuine anger in his voice makes her hold her breath. He glares at her for a moment, as though daring her to say something else but she finds herself unable to talk. He tries to bring himself back under control but it’s transparent. She can see the anger still, “and it’s not supposed to be used to kill.”

“See?” Squirrel drops his cloak and leaves it in her death grip, stepping out of her reach before pushing between them, “he used it to protect us,” she thinks of the black figures who were trying to kill them and thinks of them all being ash now. She’s glad for it, does that make her as bad as them? “I saw him almost die and he didn’t use it, so he’s got control. You don’t have to be scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

“You look scared,” Squirrel says.

“I’m not,” she repeats, refusing to acknowledge the stinging feeling in her eyes.

“So—“ Squirrel stops when Lancelot’s hand drops onto his shoulder. Pym doesn’t know how he listens so easily. So willingly. She doesn’t know if she’s ever going to be able to hear to him again without thinking of what she just saw. Without thinking of him defending his Folk’s secret and being willing to destroy everyone else, “I was just asking,” Squirrel mumbles.

“Stay here,” Lancelot says.

“Where are you going?”

“To find the horse.”

She watches him slip into the woods. She doesn’t know what possesses her to walk over to the ash pile. It’s so fine. She’s surprised that she can hold anything in her hand. Is it because of the nature of the fuel? Or is there just another ash pile where those people and those trees stood? She half wants to look, though she knows she wouldn’t be able to find her way back. Could being lost in the forest really be worse than being here? She could tie Squirrel up and just go. It’s been a half formed thought this entire time. Now would be the time to do it. No matter how anxiously he’s peering out into the woods, worried about a monster he considered a friend.

“You shouldn’t have made him leave,” he says finally, “just ‘cause your upset. I thought you didn’t want to take it out on him.”

She should have know Squirrel was fake sleeping.

She doesn’t know why that’s the tipping point. Maybe it’s one lie too many, maybe it’s just everything stacked up on top of each other but suddenly she can’t see though her tears. She’s done everything to not feel useless and suddenly that’s all she feels. Squirrel’s just a boy but they aren’t just anything anymore. When she wipes her face she thinks about the ash she must have gotten on her skin and that nearly makes her weep.

“I’m sorry, Pym,” Squirrel says suddenly, horror painting his features at her tears instead of any of the other things they’ve been through, “I didn’t mean to lie, I was gonna tell you—“

“I don’t care that you were pretending to sleep.”

“Then what’s wrong? Are you scared of Lancelot?”

“Yes!” She says, finally giving into the truth that she’s been trying to ignore, “he killed so many—“ she shakes her head, “we could still have a home if it wasn’t for him. I thought he didn’t care about the Fey but he did, he just didn’t care about any Folk who weren’t his own.”

Squirrel lets her cry and awkwardly rubs her back when she does. Pym gives up trying to feel brave or anything but terrible and homesick and so very small. She keeps quiet because she’s learned to cry quietly. So others wouldn’t tease her, so the Raiders wouldn’t see. But her shoulders still shake and she knows she’s not doing a good job of hiding it as she weeps. She can’t even say it’s just for her. She cries for her friends, for Nimue, for Dof—for everyone the hateful church and that stupid king has taken. She cries because the world doesn’t make sense and she was thinking that maybe, in some small way, it was starting to again. When she’s all out of tears and reduced to pitifully shaky breaths she looks up to see Squirrel is still standing there awkwardly rubbing her back, looking at her with the horror that only a young boy can muster for a tearful woman.

“Do you feel better?” He asks timidly.

“I think so,” Pym says.

“Are you going to cry again?”

“Not tonight,” she says, wiping her cheeks again, “you’re safe from that at least.”

“Phew,” Squirrel says in such an exaggerated manner she knows he’s teasing, “do you want some water?”

She nods and gets to her feet, brushing off the ash. She doesn’t know why she feels better, even just a little, after crying. But she does. She drinks something and makes sure Goliath is as comfortable as he can be. The horse doesn’t seem perturbed to stand there. He doesn’t seem perturbed by anything. Even she can admit he’s well trained. She makes sure he has water before she sits next to Squirrel

“I’ll wait up for Lancelot, you should go to sleep,” he says.

“Alright,” Pym lies.

It takes about five minutes for him to fall asleep. She checks to make sure he’s really out thought this time. Not just faking it. Then there’s nothing to do but wait. She half thinks that maybe Lancelot has taken the other horse with its weapons and gone off. She ties Goliath with magic, just to ensure Lancelot won’t try anything. Then she goes back to waiting. She doesn’t get half way through rehearsing her demands before he appears out of the shadows leading the other horse. If the horse was badly shaken it doesn’t appear so, it follows him obediently. No hard feelings. Pym half wishes she was like that horse. He stops a good few feet from their makeshift camp and walks around so that she’s between him and Squirrel. She knows he won’t come closer without permission. She doesn’t know how, she just knows it.

“I want to know why,” she says, and doesn’t wait for a rebuttal. She holds his gaze, “can you explain?” His lips press together, “will you?”

Something seems to deflate him slightly, or maybe he’s already given up his biggest secret. But he nods.

“Yes.”


	10. Chapter 10

Pym sits straighter than he’s seen her and fists her hands in her dress and just waits. It’s infuriating, but he shoves the anger aside. Some part of him—actually most of him—longs for his Brothers who had learned to stop asking questions. Father was unwilling to talk and had ordered him to silence, but that didn’t stop them. Father let it continue until he was certain that he would keep his mouth shut. Certain that he could keep a secret. Then he ordered them to stop asking questions. Looking back on it, he wonders if Father had any inclination he was keeping such a useful secret the entire time. Now he’s back in the present. He knows the story, his story, but the prospect of telling it is uncomfortable.

Not as uncomfortable as the things he’s done today, but certainly more on the side of exposing his powers than having the arrows cut out of him.

“The Church came to my village,” he says, “they rounded up the children and brought us to Brother Salt. They were trying to save us,” Pym makes a noise of disgust but doesn’t cut in. He takes a breath, “I was a boy. I wanted the pain to stop.”

It had made sense at the time. To this day he doesn’t know how it didn’t occur to any of the other boys. If they were braver or stronger or just died faster. It had always been impressed upon him that the Fire was a secret. That his Folk died to protect that secret after they had been killed for it by everyone. Humans, Fey—everyone wanted the Fire. He doesn’t know if he would have said something if telling them he could smell the others hadn’t stopped the pain. He doesn’t think about it. The pain stopped. He survived. He knows he doesn’t have use for what ifs. Of the what if’s he could hurt himself with, that one is not top of the list anyway.

“They herded everyone into their houses and they burned the village down,” he says. He sees the confusion on her face, “Fey Fire isn’t regular fire.”

“I know, but—“ she looks down at her hands, “if there was a time—“

“I thought the same,” he says, “but if they saw the children being taken away, they knew what they would do to us if they knew. Keeping Fire from them was more important.”

Pym’s throat bobs and he knows what she’s thinking. She doesn’t understand that what was done to him was not the worst they could do. He isn’t maimed like Brother Salt or fanatical like the Brothers who have felt His Grace and been driven to madness. The Pope takes them. He knows whether it is by his own stubbornness or his own damnation, he has some freedoms. Freedom to not kill the little ones, to not dress in red, to not have had his marks burned from his skin. None of those freedoms have felt good, but they have been there. Obstacles on his Road, as Father would say. Things preventing him from being Saved.

“What you did to the people in the trees—“

“Children don’t know how to control it.”

It settles on her that his Folk died to keep their secrets. He knows the irony that in trying to protect the young ones from one fire, they were largely condemned to another. The ones that escaped it did so by dying a different way. He knows it was cleverness and cowardice that saved him. He’s proud of neither, not anymore. She thinks on what he’s said. He wishes that there had been more time to practice conversing before his abilities were put to the ultimate test like this. But life doesn’t work that way. It never has.

“So once you were theirs, once you signed up for this,” she motions to him, “why not tell them? You’ve had years where you could have.”

“They already thought I was born of a demon,” he says, “I didn’t want them to think the hellfire had already gotten me.”

It made sense to his mind as a child. It had never really stopped making sense. Maybe because he knew that his position was precarious. Every time he even wavered, Father would speak of how he was damned or how he was not even on the Road. Or they would speak of the Fey. And his tongue would lay quiet in his mouth. If he was damned because of a lie, what kind of damnation would they think he would suffer because of the Fire? Some combination of that and of the knowledge as a child that this secret was not one to share kept his mouth closed about it. There was nothing brave about his silence. It was cowardice. The thread of it seems to run through all of his actions since that day.

“I don’t think anyone who can do what I saw you do has reason to be afraid,” Pym says finally.

Discomfort churns in his guts and he shakes his head.

“They were foolish enough to pick interconnected trees,” he says, “I was never trained. I don’t know how to do it without fuel.”

“Could others?”

He hesitates and immediately kicks himself for the theatrics. After what he has just told her, after what she has seen, it’s not as though he has any secret that matters anymore.

“Yes,” he says finally.

She falls silent again. After spending the past days praying that she and Squirrel would be silent, now that she is, it’s unsettling. She looks almost like the Folk he’s hunted down. Scared and tearful and exhausted. If it had been back when he did that, he thinks now would have been the time when he cut her down. If he was lucky he would leave the boy to wake up alone, if he was not his companions would take care of him. It’s an unsettling feeling. But not the blinding grief when he thinks of home or the betrayal he’s dealt his Brothers. He knew the practical thing back at camp was to cut his throat and leave him so he could not follow. He knows the practical thing now is to kill both of them so they cannot tell his secret. He ignores the impulse and the discomfort that comes with not doing the practical thing.  
“I don’t understand, why didn’t you run?”

“I couldn’t,” he says.

“Why not?”

He tries to push down the anger. He’s answered more questions in the past moments than he has in years. Explained more about himself than he ever wished to. But it’s not enough. It feels like kneeling in the Holy Church again, praying for Grace and feeling nothing. There’s no Father to tell him he simply needs to try harder. He thought that Grace would be the hardest thing he would strive for, if he ever came close at all. The silence stung. Now he would kill for that silence. The demand for explanations and words and accountability feels as though it will drive him mad.

“I woke up on a boat,” he says finally. Pym looks distinctly un-impressed, “I had never been on one before. I didn’t know where they were taking me.”

“And after that?” She asks.

He says nothing to that. He sees her shift uncomfortably. If she hadn’t seen his skin or his actions, she may not have pieced it together. She’s figured it out but he half expects her to demand he say the words. She still may eventually. But for the moment she gives a quick nod of understanding and looks down at her hands. He doesn’t know if he’s said the right thing. If there is a right thing to say. He considers if she thinks he’s weak for not escaping. For not burning with the others. Whatever bravery he had back then was always tainted with weakness. He was a child who told tall tales and had clever words to get out of trouble, not any actual bravery. He thought he had learned to be brave but he sees the folly in it now.

“I got myself onto a boat too,” she says finally, “there was less torture on mine,” he looks over at her sharply. Her body language has softened. In his head some sharply trained voice says now would be the proper time to kill her. When she has her guard down. He ignores that voice and the longing to listen to it, “thank you for telling me that.”

It’s frustrating to not know if anything changed. He’s used to immediate reactions. Clear consequences. Pym is slightly relaxed but not by much. She’s still afraid. He doesn’t know Squirrel’s feelings but he didn’t seem afraid before, so he doubts there’s any change there. When he looks over at the horses, they’re both grazing. Neither truly seeming to care about what happened earlier. It’s confusing and infuriating wrapped up in one. Worse, he’s powerless to do anything about it. When he stands up, Pym’s gaze follows him but she doesn’t tell him to leave. He walks over to his mount. The horse raises his head and huffs at him, lipping his extended hand like he’s a foal or he has a treat. Neither is true, but he lets him do it before he goes back to grazing.

He looks over to see Pym giving the other horse water. She comes over and pulls out her healers bag, rifling through it for a moment before producing a pair of black gloves. She holds them out to him. He looks at them and back at her. She still looks afraid, but she also looks determined. Like she knows this is a practical thing she must do.

“The Raiders gave me these for traction but they’re too big. They may fit you.”

“What I told you already happened,” he says.

“This isn’t about what you just told me,” she replies, “what’s happened has happened and all of us will have to live with it for the rest of our days,” she continues, “but making your life harder will only make me feel better for now and that’s not what I want,” she holds the gloves out to him, “maybe next time we all won’t be so distracted we wind up in a situation where you have to use it.”

He can’t bear to stand there and puzzle over what she’s doing so he takes the gloves from her. She puts her bag back up. They fit well. He wonders whose they were, but he reasons that there’s a good chance he killed one or more of the previous owners and decides to leave that argument for another day.

“You should get some rest,” he says, “if you can.”

She nods and goes back. He’s sure Squirrel was asleep but he sees the boy stirring. He looks between the two of them, makes a noise, rolls over and goes back to sleep as though all is right in the world. It takes longer for Pym’s breathing to even out, but she falls asleep as well. He’s gone for much longer without sleep. In a way keeping watch feels like the only thing he can do. At the very least it’s familiar. He gets the bow down from Goliath and the horse comes over to put himself at his side, keeping his own watch.

Lancelot nocks an arrow and settles into waiting.


	11. Chapter 11

There’s no choice anymore, it’s gotten past the point of anything resembling proper. Much as she wishes that it hadn’t. She hates the idea of being so exposed but she doesn’t have much of a choice.

“We should stop,” she says. They both turn to look at her, “I hear water.”

“We have water,” Squirrel says.

She looks between the two of them and sighs.

“We need to clean up,” she says. They trade looks, “they probably don’t even need a Fey to track us at this point,” she continues, “and we all smell like burned wood.”

The implication hovers in the air. Squirrel looks repulsed at the idea but she can see Lancelot considering it. That must mean the smell is really bad. He dismounts and drops the reins of the horse he’s been riding. It’s been only a few days but she stands still as though he’s given her an order. Pym watches as he grasps the nearest branch in his now gloved hands and hauls himself up. He disappears quickly into the trees and she lays a hand on Goliath when he shifts his weight like he’d prefer his human kept both feet on the ground. After a little while he comes back down and drops silently to the ground. She hears Squirrel’s sharp inhale and sees how impressed he is.

“We can stop,” he says.

They find the running water she heard earlier and Pym breathes a sigh of relief. Tucked into her healers bag she has a few bars of the soap the Raiders used to get the salt off their skin when it got too uncomfortable. She divides a piece of one up, giving thought to everyone’s needs. She turns around to distribute the soap. She’s seen Lancelot half naked before, and she doesn’t have his qualms about the opposite sex. But she’s surprised to see just how long his hair is when he takes it down. Though there are marks on his face, plain for all to see, the long hair makes him look instantly like one of their men.

“Your hair’s long,” she says stupidly.

“Easier to pull back,” he says, either ignoring her remark or not realizing the implications.

“We wear our hair long,” she says, “I’ve never seen a Paladin with it.”

“He doesn’t,” Lancelot says, nodding towards Squirrel.

“That’s because I got lice,” Squirrel says glumly, “my mom had to shave my head so I wouldn’t spread it.”

“It’ll grow back,” Pym assures him, like she’s been doing for months.

Hair seems like such a trivial thing to be upset about now, but at the time it had been devastating. Seeing him glum about it seems like a sign that maybe there’s some part of that simpler time in some part of the world. Even just a fraction. Squirrel wrinkles his nose and takes the sliver of soap she hands him. Lancelot takes the other with another of his nods. She takes the last chunk and finds a nearby place sheltered by some rocks. She knows this is necessary, she also knows it’s going to be bitterly cold. Still there’s no point in lingering on it so she pulls off her clothes and gets in.

It’s worse than she thought and she can’t quite stop the yelp. Neither can Squirrel from the sound of it.

“We need to be quiet,” Lancelot says.

“Sorry we can’t all be silent like you,” she mutters, though she knows he’s right.

She doesn’t want to think of what makes a man capable of being silent when arrows are being pulled out of him. She knows it, but she doesn’t want to linger on the thought. Instead she focuses on making herself as clean as possible and scrubbing the smell of mythical fire out of her hair. That and days of travel, blood, sweat and everything else. It half makes her want to shave her head if this is to be her life now, but her hair has always been her favorite thing about herself. She’s not ready to hack that off. It takes a few scrubbings and the soap to be all used before she’s clean. Or as clean as she can be. She knows they can’t linger but it feels so nice to be in the water. She forces herself to get out and get dressed. She goes back to the spot where the two boys are.

Lancelot’s got one of the knives and is shaving the hairs from his jaw. His hair is wet and tangled. If she didn’t know he was a monster, she imagines she would think he was just another Fey knight. But Squirrel watches him sharply and she remembers that there’s no-one to teach him to do that. That or any number of things a father should teach their sons. Lancelot is responsible for that, but Lancelot also didn’t have a father. Not truly. The entire thing is wildly confusing. She doesn’t know who to feel bad for, who to feel angry at or how she should really feel at all. So instead she goes and gets her comb and sets about working the knots from her hair. Which has always been her least favorite part of wash day.

“I wish Nimue was here, she always liked wash day,” Squirrel says.

Pym feels her heart ache as the hair on the back of her neck stands up. Nimue always felt connected to the water. She was forever causing splash fights and her laughter would usually be the loudest thing you could hear on wash day. Remembering that made her ache. The reminder that part of the reason she’s gone is Lancelot makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She looks over at him, but the name doesn’t seem to mean anything. Squirrel looks back at her and she smiles sadly.

“She always did make it more fun,” she agrees.

She feels strange talking about her friend in front of Lancelot. She wonders if it will always feel strange talking about these things in front of him. Or if that will be something she has to be concerned with at all. She has no idea what he has planned for his future or if he even has a plan. The tumble of emotions almost makes her queasy so she focuses instead on finishing unknotting her hair and then braiding it like she has been wearing it.

“Here,” she says, offering Lancelot the comb. He looks at her outstretched hand and then back to her face, “if you’re shaving with one of my knives, I’m guessing you don’t have a comb.”

He takes it from her almost gingerly and then sets about combing his hair. It takes a much shorter amount of time. She doesn’t know why she’s relieved when he combs his hair to hide the bald patch and cross, but it feels a little easier to breathe, even though she knows that it’s there.

“Why’s your hair cut like that?” Squirrel asks.

“It shows devotion,” Lancelot says. When no-one stops him he continues, “Saint Peter was the first—“ he trails off as they look at him blankly, “it’s a show of faith,” he says.

“How’s cutting your hair a show of faith? And whose Saint Peter?”

Lancelot is silent for a moment and looks at her. Her discomfort must show on her face because he presses his lips together. Pym kicks herself. There’s no harm in his stories, what on earth are they going to do? Squirrel is Fey and Lancelot isn’t converting anyone. Besides, she reminds herself, the damage is already done. She doesn’t need to be afraid of stories or the color red just because of the connection it has. She doesn’t need to give any of these things power.

“Tell us who Saint Peter is,” she says, “if the story can do more damage than what’s been done, I’d be interested to hear it.”

He considers it for a moment before getting to his feet.

“I’ll tell you when we stop for the night,” he says, “we should make up the time we’ve lost.”

It’s a lot easier to stand so close and let him boost her up with the smell largely gone and his hair combed over the mark. She braces against his shoulder and swings herself up into Goliath’s saddle. It’s still uncomfortable but it’s not as terrible as the second day. Squirrel settles in front of her and that also is entirely more pleasant with the smell gone. It’s more tolerable but that doesn’t make it easier to relax. Actually the only thing that makes her feel truly safe is Goliath. It’s odd to have her faith in people replaced by faith in an animal, but she supposes odd is going to be her life from now on.

Lancelot has them stop eventually and dismounts without a word, walking forward and inhaling. Pym tightens her grip on the reins but Goliath gives no indication that it’s time to flee. He doesn’t react at all. Though she imagines the sight of Lancelot with his nose tipped up and his eyes shut isn’t anything new to him. When he turns back to them, she can see the frustration in his face. Her heart jumps as her mind goes through everything that could be wrong. It keeps circling back to that he’s lost the trail. Her idea for a bath has delayed them and the trail is gone. She’s cost Squirrel his home.

“What is it?” She asks. Lancelot looks at her sharply, like he’s forgotten she’s there.

“There’s a village,” he says, “they must have snuck through it,” he seems more frustrated if possible, “we went through it before. They’ll recognize me,” he looks at Goliath, “we should make camp and you two should ride ahead in the morning and join them.”

“No,” Squirrel says quickly, “we’re not leaving you.”

“He’s right,” Pym hears herself saying, “we’ll make camp and think of a plan,” she looks at him, “unless you want to leave.”

“He—“ she claps a hand over Squirrel’s mouth.

Lancelot looks at her in that odd way of his, as though he’s trying to see into some part of her not visible to the naked eye. Pym doesn’t know why, she’s never been a good liar and she knows she hasn’t improved in that area. Perhaps he’s expecting her to give him permission or ask him to come along. She can’t do either of those things. She refuses to be someone who orders him around. He’s going to have to make his own decisions, something that will be even more true if he joins whatever is left of their home.  
“We’ll make camp,” he says, “and see what we come up with.”

It’s odd to hear the word ‘we’ come from his lips.

But after the past few days, she’ll take oddities like that gladly.


	12. Chapter 12

The ripping sound digs into him.

The practical part of him says that this isn’t important and he shouldn’t care about a bit of fabric. Some other part of him says it was a gift from his Father. It means something. He listens to neither part and just watched as Pym rips seams and then sets about sewing. She’s fast and confident in her motions as she re-fashions the dark green fabric. His loose clothing suddenly becomes much more well fitting and far more like the clothing he sees the men wearing in town. Much more like what Arthur wears.

“They’ll recognize the marks,” he says.

Pym doesn’t stop sewing. Only the furrow of her brow tells him that she’s heard. It smooths out and she ignores him until she’s done. Then she stands up and hands him a pile of refashioned garments.

“I have a plan for that,” she says, “be careful putting those on, it’s not my best work,” she nudges Squirrel awake, “try these on.”

When they rejoin, they look like a normal traveling group. They could be from anywhere. He has to admit that if not for his marks, they could pass as something other than themselves. Her hair is also distinctive but there are other fire haired women. She looks them over and nods. He realizes belatedly that she has more experience passing as a human than any of them. Successfully anyways. He thinks of the Knights confusion and wonders how he thought his Brothers didn’t know. It doesn’t matter now. The betrayal if he had told them he was Fey would have been inconsequential, but it never happened. Pym and Squirrel’s refusal to leave him or to abandon him, even when it makes sense, shows him that the Knight was not lying. Fey are brothers. He thinks of that more as their reunion with the rest of them looms. When Pym and Squirrel could betray him in a way that matters.

He watches as Pym undoes her hair and brushes it out. It is distinctive, he realizes. If he was telling someone to look for her that would be something he would use to mark her appearance. He watches as she braids her hair and starts tucking and pinning it. When she lowers her hands her hair is tucked and pinned in such a way that it looks much shorter. If she keeps her hood up it will be hard to see. Especially if she ties it back. There is nothing that would mark Squirrel as distinctive appearance was. With a few small adjustments the pair could pass as related. That will make it easier to slip through.

“What’s the plan?” He asks finally. She looks at him quietly for a moment. He doesn’t know why she’s hesitating, “do you not have one?”

“I have one,” she says with a scowl, “you’re just going to have to wait. I can’t tell you,” he presses his lips together, “you have no patience, do you?”

“Not at the end of it,” he says.

“Fine,” she looks over her shoulder, “wait there.”

He can’t hear what she says to Squirrel. He catches a few words but apparently Fey are better at keeping their whispers to themselves than he would have thought. He sees Squirrel start for him and Pym drags him back. But finally they both come back to where he’s sitting. He looks between the two of them before he settles on Pym. But she nudges Squirrel forward. He looks at the boy instead.

“You said people wanted what you could do,” Squirrel says, “they want what I can do too.”

“Here,” Pym holds her hand out, “you can show him on me.”

Squirrel grips her hand. Vines creep on his skin and the smell is sharp before it abruptly vanishes. Like someone has blown out a candle. It’s disorienting when he realizes the marks on Squirrel’s skin are gone as well. He watches as Pym passes her hand over the cloak, the threads tightening in response. He can see the wink of her magic, but no vines appear on her skin and the smell of her doesn’t change. He focuses on Squirrel. He can still smell them but not in the way that he usually can when Fey use magic.

“I can hide them,” Squirrel says.

“How long does it last?” He asks, surprised at how hoarse his voice is. But its been a long time since he’s been shocked like this.

“I have to concentrate,” Squirrel says, “I’ve made it last a few hours,” he looks down, “I’m still learning.”

“You’re doing fine,” Pym says, “we’re all learning. Right, Lancelot?”

He realizes that she’s looking at him and wordlessly nods in agreement. He is. Especially when it comes to the other parts of his abilities. He has had no reason to practice, nor the opportunity. He doesn’t know if he ever will. The fire is not supposed to be shared. But he has shared it. Squirrel lets go of the magic he’s used on himself and Pym and their smell comes back sharp. Like someone is waving it under his nose. He stands up and steps back to breath fresher air. A few hours isn’t ideal but it should be enough time to find the others. As long as they’re safe, that’s what matters.

“Here,” Pym appears near him suddenly with a jar in her hand. When she opens the lid it’s so pungent he can smell nothing else, “well that it got rid of the rest of that look, though you got better.”

He’s grateful when she screws the lid back on. Apparently his latest penance is to be in a world determined to make him smell one overwhelming thing after another. But he knows that they have to act as inconspicuous as possible to get to where they’re going without alerting anyone. Getting into a fight with his Brothers will not help. His former Brothers. The reworking he needs to do of the world makes his head spin, almost as badly as the smell of Fey using magic so close. He can’t pretend it isn’t nice to have company as he’s running from everything. Though the idea of being around other Fey makes him nervous. Which is not a feeling he’s had to suffer through since he was a very young boy.

“You look that disgusted and you’ll just look like most people in towns.”

“Have you been in many?”

“Not as many as you,” Pym says without missing a beat, “but I’m sure I’ll catch up.”

“Or your people will find a new haven,” he says.

“If they’ve left, will you be able to track them?” She asks after a moment, “can you do that if they’ve taken ships?”

He’s surprised to see it’s a genuine question. A fair one, if he thinks about it. He finds himself oddly humbled by the realization that despite her people being so close, she’s elected to stay to make sure they all get there. He’s accepted that Fey think of themselves as a brotherhood, but given the atrocities he’s done specifically to her and her Folk, he’s surprised at how far she’s been willing to put her own desires to the side to help him. Even if they both know there’s no guarantee that he’ll be able to stay.

“I don’t know,” he says finally, “I haven’t tracked over the sea,” her face falls, “but I’ve tracked after losing a trail,” he adds, “I’ll find them.”

She looks at him and he thinks it may have been the wrong thing to say. Reassuring people is not a skill he’s ever had to develop. Or use. His life has always been simple. Either he does the thing he’s asked to do or he is punished. His usefulness has always made it so killing him is something that has to be thought about, though now he knows it’s on the table. When he was a boy he was forever saying the wrong things. That doesn’t seem to have changed with time. She glances away and then looks back at him.

“You know that should be frightening to hear from your mouth,” she says, “but I’m glad,” she folds her arms, “you can’t tell anyone about what Squirrel can do.”

“Of course not,” he says.

“And we won’t tell anyone what you can do,” she adds, “talking about what we can do isn’t something we normally do, but I don’t think any of this is normal. I don’t know what the others are sharing. We should just be on the same page with what we don’t want others to know.”

He watches her twist her fingers like she’s tying a knot. He’s done enough interrogations to know that you get the most answers when someone has their hands free. When they tell you they’re lying. Of course his methods were always considered too kind, especially when compared to the theatrics Brother Salt was known for. It wasn’t as ‘cleansing’. Of course he wasn’t sure what was cleansing about killing and not getting the truth, but that was never for him to decide. He looks at her features and can see she’s deep in thought.

“Are you nervous about joining up with them?” He asks, breaking through. She raises her head and opens her mouth and then falls silent, nodding her response, “why?”

“Everything’s different,” she says, “I feel different,” she picks at her dress, “being around them was never going to be the same, but it’s worse than I thought it would be. And everyone’s so grateful to be together—“ she looks down, “I miss my friend.”

“Nimue,” he says. She looks away.

“It’s fine,” she cuts in, “she’s probably still out there somewhere. She said she was going to meet us where we were going if she could. And there’s nothing she couldn’t do, so—I’ll see her again someday.”

He looks at her and doesn’t understand why him saying her name is something she can’t wrap her head around. He doesn’t know why the name of a Fey should affect him so much. Unless—it clicks then. The realization is heavy. Irrationally he wishes that he was in the middle of a fight or that the Guard would attack. Or that he had his cloak so he could shield himself in it’s confines. But he has no such kindnesses from the world. He deserves none of them.

“Nimue is the Wolf-Blood Witch,” he says. He looks back at Squirrel and remembers his fondness for Nimue as well, “he knew her too.”

“We were friends,” Pym says. Her eyes narrow and that anger he’s seen comes back into her face, “you didn’t even know the name of the one you were hunting.”

He forces himself not to get lost in the realization that he’s been traveling with the people who knew the one he was hunting best. Normally the Fey are all just Fey, the individual rarely matters. But the Wolf-Blood Witch, she was different. She mattered. He can still recall her scent. The failure of his last hunt for the Brothers digs at him, even if he can admit that he was distracted towards the end. But perhaps that was not so much an accident either, if Squirrel knew her.

“Did the Green Knight know her?” He asks, “as you do?”

Pym presses her lips together and the urge to get the answers blinds him for a moment. He’s closer before he realizes what he’s doing. His body remembers and his mind wants, even as a third part of him rallies against all of that. Pym steps back and that new, third part of him roars louder. As though it’s making up for lost time and all the time it’s been silent. Or silenced. He knows the look on Pym’s face. The one he’s seen on every Fey for many years. It’s never been something he’s relished but it’s never been something he’s minded either. To his surprise, he minds it this time.

“I’m sorry,” he says and the shock of the words wipes the fear off Pym’s face, “I didn’t mean to—“ frustration adds to the emotions and he’s almost grateful for the familiarity, “I’m not here to hurt your friend.”

Pym looks away and he holds himself still, waiting for her punishment. That’s how outbursts are always met. Or losses of control. He wouldn’t be surprised if she told him to go, that he wasn’t safe to have around. He hates how much he wants that to happen, while at the same time hoping it doesn’t. Hope is such a terrible thing. If he misses anything from his time with the Brothers, it’s the absence of hope. It made life so much more simpler.

“You have to find another way to deal with that,” she says, “if not for yourself than for Squirrel. It’s hard being friends with someone people are afraid of.”

“You’ll be associated with me as well,” he points out, wondering if she’s realized that she’s in the same boat as Squirrel, “we’ve been traveling together.”

“I’ve been friends with Nimue since we were girls,” she says, “I’m used to being friends with people everyone is afraid of. Everyone still thought Squirrel would grow out of it, they realized I wouldn’t a long time ago.”

“You could change,” he says.

“I have changed. Everything’s changed,” she brushes her hands down her skirt, “but I’ve kept that part of myself so far. I’m not giving it up,” she frowns, “and don’t say that, you sound like the ones I don’t miss.”

It’s a horrible thing to say and she seems to realize that because the horror is back on her face. But it’s also a very practical thing to say. There’s people everywhere who don’t like each other for any number of reasons. There are Brothers he longed to be accepted by and Brothers whose contempt he almost relished. At the very least he didn’t mind it so much. Pym shakes her head and her face goes between a smile and horror so many times in a moment, it’s practically dizzying.

“What a terrible thing—“

“I understand,” he offers.

“I wish you didn’t,” she admits.

He understands that too.


	13. Chapter 13

The first flash of red makes her heart leap.

They’re talking with their heads down, not looking at anyone in particular. There’s no reason for them to look. The most suspicious thing is the gasp she has to fight to keep from escaping. But they don’t even glance at her. She only breathes when they pass by. Their paths only cross for a moment but it’s the longest moment and then it’s over and they continue down the road that leads to the main part of the village. Lancelot leads them through, keeping his head down. If it’s harder to sniff them out, he doesn’t show it as he moves.

“There.”

Pym turns as she’s suddenly grabbed by a black hooded figure who seems to know to clap her hand over her mouth. It takes her only a moment to recognize the Red Spear. Pym’s never been so glad to see the Raider in her entire life. She has to actually stop herself from hugging her, though she’s sure that would be met with nothing good. The Spear even takes the time to roll her eyes at her relief before clapping her on the shoulder. She motions them all to be quiet and leads them down a few more streets and to the docks.

“Thankfully you didn’t make us wait longer,” she says gruffly.

“We came as fast as we could,” Pym assures her, keeping a hand on Squirrel. She’s not losing anyone this close, “where—“

“Not here,” she says, continuing down the docks, “has the horse been on the water yet?”

“He’ll be fine,” Pym says, it’s only a half lie.

She pushes Squirrel forward and leads Goliath up the ramp. She looks back to make sure Lancelot isn’t having trouble with the other horse and is surprised to see he’s not behind them. Her heart jumps into her throat, but she spots him at the end of the pier. Standing still. She quickly hands Goliath’s reins to Squirrel before he can realize what’s going on. Goliath won’t fight the boy, she could drop his reins and he would stand there. But with Squirrel’s ability for trouble she knows that leaving the ship is bad. She hurries back to where Lancelot is.

“We have to go,” she says.

Lancelot drags his eyes to hers.

Of course he would be afraid of ships.

She looks over his shoulder. She can’t see any Paladins coming but that doesn’t mean they won’t be there soon. They are so close. She refuses to accept the thought that this will all fall apart. There are fears that Pym accepts, there are fears that she does not. This falls somewhere in the middle but right now, right now she needs it to be unacceptable. She needs him to get on the ship.

“Lancelot, we have to get on the ship,” he looks at her almost blankly, “come on.”

She doesn’t know what posses her to grab the horses reins and pull the mount forward, but she does. Lancelot holds the horse but starts walking. It’s a sickeningly long pier suddenly and she’s sure that every breath is going to be her last. Or his last. Or the horse’s last. But each breath ends and she inhales her next. From the deck she can see the Red Spear looking from her to the docks and back again. But when their eyes lock and she’s glared at, Pym finds herself glaring right back. She’s never been so grateful for an uphill, though it’s too narrow for them to go three by three. Thankfully one of the Raider’s takes the reins and she manages to grab one of Lancelot’s hands and pull him and somehow all three of them make it onto the boat.

Before they even have time to catch their breaths the lines are being thrown back. Her heart sinks as she realizes that Nimue isn’t here. Even as logic tells her that she wouldn’t want them to wait for them, that she would want them to be safe, she has to fight the urge to say they should wait for her. Especially when, as the ship starts to pull away, she hears shouts. The Raiders curse and start to move. Before she fully has time to think what she’s doing through, she grabs Squirrel and hauls both of them off the deck and out of the way. Lancelot might be a good archer but he still seems shocked and she can see Squirrel’s magic finally releasing it’s hold. They’ll recognize him. She looks over to see Lancelot go that same green shade but worse. She knows that look. Worse she sees it on Squirrel.

Thankfully there’s two buckets.

The Red Spear comes down and looks between the pair of them and then focuses on Pym. She drops Pym’s bag with a heavy thunk and then a second bag Pym hasn’t seen before. But both seem to be for her. She walks over, glaring at Lancelot and Pym moves so she’s between the pair of them.

“Did he hurt you? Try anything?” The Red Spear grips one of the dozen knives on her, “anything at all?”

“What? No!” Pym says.

“Damn,” she says and doesn’t drop her hand, though she looks vaguely disappointed. Her eyes narrow, “no stomach on either of them,” she mutters, “standby in case you’re needed.”

“It’s their first time on a boat!” Pym calls after her but she’s already gone.

Pym takes a deep breath. She’s surprised that she’s still in one piece, that they made it here at all. She’s surprised that they are here. Back on a ship. With a bunch of Raiders running around above their heads. She was just adjusting to being back on land, now she finds herself back in the sea. Takes the bags out of the entranceway, the last thing she needs is someone tripping and breaking a nose. Then she turns back to the two behind her. She goes to Squirrel first, swinging her leg over the bench.

“Hand please,” she says, “left one.”

He thrusts it out and she takes it, finding the place where Dof pinched her. She finds his ear as well and pinches the spots. He yelps but she keeps holding her fingers there until he lifts his head from the bucket and looks around, the queasy look easing from his face.

“How’d you do that?” He asks.

“It’s not my first time on a boat,” she says, “go clean out the bucket.”

She walks over to where Lancelot is. Despite hurling into the bucket, he sticks his left hand out as she settles in front of him. She takes his hand and presses her fingers to the webbing between his pointer and thumb. He tilts his head so she can get to her ear. She digs her fingers in but he doesn’t make any noise. Because of course he doesn’t. She holds her fingers and keeps her fingers there for a while. For a moment she thinks that he might not have worked.

“Do you feel better?” She asks. He says nothing, “less nauseous,” she elaborates.

“Yes,” he says.

When he raises his head, he’s still pale and doesn’t look nearly as in control of himself as she’s used to seeing. It’s the boat, she knows it’s the boat. For the first time since they set out together, she feels truly guilty. Does dragging him onto the boat count in the same way as murdering her village? She doesn’t think so, but it’s a cruel thing none the less. She’s told herself every time she scolds him that she doesn’t want to be cruel. That it makes her no better than the rest of them. That it dishonors the people who do matter. But those are things she tells herself. She feels them but not like this.

“I’m sorry I forced you onto the boat,” she says, “I didn’t want anyone else to die because of the Paladins,” she looks at him, “I didn’t think we could wait any longer and I didn’t want to leave you behind to get killed.”

He looks at her quietly for a long moment. She can’t read his face. She’s gotten somewhat decent at reading people but maybe he just doesn’t feel strongly. Or maybe he’s in shock.

“I’m dead either way,” he says.

“No you aren’t,” she says, “you’re a Fey,” he gives her a look, “no-one’s just going to cut you down.”

“That would be the practical thing to do.”

“Then at least you’d die surrounded by your kin and going towards something good instead of being afraid on the docks,” she says. His look shifts to something incredulous and she wonders how he constantly seems to undermine her attempts at being kind, “do you feel less nauseous?”

He nods, his jaw scratching her wrist. She lowers her hand from his ear and her other from the webbing of his fingers. He stands up slowly. Even if the nausea is gone, his eyes close briefly as the ship rocks. It can’t be a pleasant thing to be back on the ship. The ship, the woods—she wonders if he’s had any place that he’s felt comfortable in. Or if it’s all just levels of discomfort. Probably the later, if she had to guess. It makes her think of her own lot, though the list of places she feels comfortable in at least has two entries. She feels comfortable on the ship. More than she thought she would, if she ever found herself back on it. But maybe her bar for familiarity is just low at the moment.

“I can’t believe you were taking arrows out of people here,” Squirrel says, “I can barely keep my feet under me,” he looks over at Lancelot, “you don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine,” Lancelot says.

Squirrel looks at her and she shakes her head quickly. There was a reason that she didn’t want Squirrel to hear what Lancelot had been through. The ship part was arguably the tamest piece of what she had been told. But that story would lead to others and now is not the time. There’s a shred of innocence left in Squirrel and she respects the urge to protect it. They all look at Arthur as he comes down. Pym never thought she would be so relieved to see a human. He smiles at the three of them but she can see the look in his eyes. When the Red Spear comes down holding a length of chain, she knows what’s going on.

“No,” she says.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur moves when she tries to put herself in between them, “we can’t have him running around the ship.”

“Hey!” Squirrel moves and Pym’s heart leaps into her throat but Lancelot moves in front of him and pushes him towards Arthur who grabs the boy, “let me go!”

“Both of you stop,” Lancelot says.

The Red Spear walks up to him, if she’s at all intimidated she doesn’t show it. Her lips curls as she glances at the bucket he’s been throwing up in. Pym sees the intimidation tactic for what it is. Lancelot must recognize it to but he doesn’t show it. He keeps his eyes on her, no expression on his face. The pallor of his skin makes his marks stand out even darker. They both look terrifying and the fight between them would be vicious, but Pym doesn’t feel fear of either of them. Just fear for one of them.

“You can’t take him to the brig,” she says.

“Oh? Can’t I?” the Red Spear turns to her, “you’re giving orders on my ship now?”

“He’s sick!” She cuts in, finally moving past Arthur, “and he’s my patient,” she looks over, “you can chain him up back there. So I may monitor him.”

The Red Spear gives her a hard look and Pym feels herself wanting to cringe away from it. But that’s not the language the Raider’s respect. So instead she looks the Red Spear in the eye and stares her down. It’s a long moment when Pym’s sure she’s going to get slapped or beaten or thrown overboard. But the Red Spear just stares her down, then she curls her lips and turns back to Lancelot.

“You try anything with her and I’ll gut you,” she says.

He holds his wrists out for the manacles and she claps one on. It hisses against his skin like a brand, but he makes no show of the pain. She leads him to the back shadows and dragging the chain through the ring of steel and clapping it on his other wrist. Pym grips Squirrel as the boy flinches at the sound and smell. The Red Spear comes back to where she’s standing.

“Get your head on straight,” she says to Pym, “come on!” She bellows to Arthur and leaves.

“Here,” Arthur quickly hands her something, looking over his shoulder at where she chained Lancelot, “be careful blocking it. Don’t get burned yourself.”

He runs after the Red Spear.

Pym looks at the leather in her hands and then follows Squirrel back to where their friend is chained up, trying not to wish that they were back in the forest on their own.


	14. Chapter 14

The day has gotten, surprisingly, worse.

Iron isn’t something he’s had to deal with in quite some time. He’s almost forgotten how it feels. But it’s not the kind of thing you ever truly forget. It makes a perverse sense that the Raiders would have these. Or maybe one of the other Fey did and gifted them. His thoughts get disoriented as his flesh burns. When he looks up at Pym and Squirrel though, his thoughts clear to not letting them touch them. Especially when Squirrel reaches for him. Pym’s faster though, thankfully.

“Hold on,” she says and grabs two of her knives. She works one under the manacle closest to her. That’s the thing about iron, once it isn’t in contact with Fey flesh, the burning stops. The metal cools. It’s just iron, “bend your legs,” she says and guides his hand onto his knee, “Squirrel, hold this steady,” she says. He moves his other hand onto his other knee. When she comes around she cuts through the fused flesh and gets her knife between his skin and the iron.

The smoking stops at least.

“Here I’ll do this one,” Squirrel says.

“No,” they say at the same time.

“Make sure the knife stays there. Don’t touch it,” Pym orders.

She carefully starts wrapping the cuffs with leather strips from somewhere. She’s careful as she does it, going slowly to make sure she doesn’t dislodge anything. When she has most of one cuff done she pushes it up. It hurts against the burns but no new burn comes. She breathes out and continues to wrap around the cuff before she secures the edge. She turns to the other cuff and starts to wrap. She’s careful again, but they are on a boat. It rocks. Pym swears and snatches her hand back, just barley stopping herself from sticking her burned fingers in her mouth. She steadies herself and goes back to wrapping the cuff. She tucks in the edge and sits back on her heels. No new hiss of flesh on iron occurs and they all seem to exhale at the same time.

“Don’t move,” Pym says to both of them and gets up.

It’s not the first time he’s sat surrounded by the smell of his own flesh. Instead of focusing on the past being thrown in his face at every turn, he focuses on his annoyance about it. Not just in what is happening but in how, wherever he is, Brother Salt is probably laughing at his good work continuing. It’s always easier to focus on his anger. It’s what has gotten him through most thing, no matter how Father told him it was a sin. Better to be a useful, necessary sin than pious and dead. It’s easier to focus on his anger and feelings of being right than to focus on the pain in his wrists or the sinking feeling that his gallows march has now really jumped forward. He sees Squirrel move forward and hold up his hand to stop him.

“I’m being careful,” Squirrel lies.

“I don’t think you know the meaning of the word,” he says, “stop trying to touch them. Pym told you not to move.”

“She told you too,” he says and looks down, “why do you always take her side?”

He opens his mouth to tell the boy he’s wrong and then considers it. They have agreed more often than not, at least when it comes to Squirrel. It’s not much, considering agreeing seems to amount to not letting charge headfirst into danger, but it’s more than he usually agrees with people about mundane things. 

“I don’t, we just agree in keeping you alive,” he says.

“You’re lucky you do and I haven’t pulled rank,” he says, shifting so he’s sitting next to him, “Sir Gawain knighted me before you found me,” he says, “it was his last act before passing into the twilight, so I think it counts.”

He sees the misgivings Squirrel tries to hide. He thinks of Gawain and his bravery. How even if he opened the door, it was Squirrel who got him through. Would he have been as receptive to another adult? Did it matter? The kind of cleverness and bravery Squirrel showed isn’t something that can be taught. Besides when he thinks of the Fey’s fighting skills, he wouldn’t really stake a knighthood on those. He’s only ever seen them win fights though cleverness.

“It must,” he says, “your friend did not seem like the type to do such a thing lightly.”

“He wasn’t,” Squirrel says perking up, “so you’re lucky I didn’t.”

“Isn’t learning to listen a part of knighthood?” Squirrel shrugs, “you may want to check.”

Pym comes back holding a stone bowl that smells sharp and crisp and a length of fabric. She takes his wrist and starts to apply the poultice, then careful wraps the bandages around his wrist. She repeats it with the other, wrapping outside of the burn. As long as his skin keeps out of contact with the iron it should be alright. When she’s done he can move his hands off his knees, nothing burning more. The poultice helps, at the very least it takes the burning away.

“Let me help,” he says.

She looks at him and then offers her hand. He spreads the stuff along the burns on her finger and the edge of her palm. It’s not as deep but it doesn’t take much for iron to eat into Fey flesh. He wraps the bandages around, careful that they won’t dislodge. He can’t hear any fighting but they’re in a ship full of Raiders. And she’s already had to patch him up. He secures the end and gives her back her hand.

“Thank you,” she says.

For a moment they are all silent.

“So, how are we going to get him out?” Squirrel asks.

Pym looks between them. It takes him a moment to realize that Squirrel is serious and Pym isn’t shooting the idea down. It’s ludicrous for many reasons. Not the least of which is the fact that they are on a boat. Even if he could get off of it in a way that wouldn’t mean certain death, he doesn’t know how he would do that without abandoning Goliath. It’s sentimental and foolish and he can hear Father rebuking him for wasting his time on such things. But the idea of leaving the horse fills him with dread. Especially for something as stupid as saving his own life. Not to mention running would mean leaving behind Squirrel and Pym. He remembers the last time he thought he left Squirrel behind. It’s not an experience he’s anxious to repeat.

“You aren’t,” he says. They both look at him. He doesn’t know who he should look at so he focuses on his wrists, “you were right. It’s better to die here.”

He’s not kin with the Fey. He’s not kin with anyone really if he thinks about it. He accepted his role as an outsider a long time ago, but then he still allowed himself the foolish hope that one day he would be good enough to feel His Grace. Even if that came after his death and his penance in the eternal hellfire. That was a lie. He knows that now. If there was ever any truth to it, he turned his back on it when he cut down the Pope’s prized Trinity Guard. He can’t say she was right about the kin part. But as for the rest of it, he’d rather be killed by his own kind than cut down by the Paladins.

“You’re not dying,” Pym says and gets to her feet.

“Do you want to die?” Squirrel asks.

He sees Pym stop, but she doesn’t try to silence the boy. He wishes that she would. He doesn’t have a good answer for the question. He’s never been someone whose sought death out. Not after all he’d been told about being demon-born and what awaited him on the other side. He had hoped that doing Father’s work might save his soul. Or help him get on the Road. But in the end he also knew he was destined for hellfire. His Holy Word said so. But his training taught him not to fear death. That it was noble to die for his Brothers. That if he died in the Lord’s service he would be a martyr. Martyrs were Saints, they were his Chosen. He was never foolish enough to think he was Chosen like that, but he could be a martyr. He could sacrifice himself to protect others.

“I want to answer for my crimes,” he says.

“That’s not an answer,” Squirrel replies, “it’s a yes or no question.”

“It’s not,” he says.

“Yes it is,” the boy replies.

“Yes I want to die,” he says as his patience wears thin.

“Are you just saying that because I’m making you answer me?”

“Yes.”

Squirrel looks monetarily smug and he rests his head back, wondering how one boy can be simultaneously so infuriating and endearing. Squirrel makes him both regret the days when the young ones would run from him and long for them desperately. He makes him think of the boys that he grew up with, the ones who were brave and good and took all of their secrets to the grave. Dying would also get him off the cursed ship. It would be the logical thing. He was lucky, as a boy, that Father took a chance on him. Instead of killing him like the others. He does not expect the world to be so kind a second time. Nor does he expect he’s capable of proving his usefulness. Not without also proving himself to be a monster.

“Do you want to die?” Pym asks him this time.

“I don’t know,” he says.

She looks at Squirrel and jerks her head. Squirrel opens his mouth to protest and she gives him a look. It’s an odd thing to watch them have a silent conversation. Especially since the boy can’t seem to shut up around him. He makes a noise of disgust though and gets to his feet, moving to the stairs and further out of ear range. Pym comes closer to him. He wishes that he had a clearer answer. He misses having a clearer answer. Or maybe what he’s wanted just has never been as important as what other people want. Maybe it still isn’t and no-one has informed him.

“For what it’s worth,” Pym says, “I think there’s been enough death.”

“I killed them,” he points out.

“Yes, I recall,” she snaps but catches herself before she starts yelling, “but your death won’t bring them back,” she says, her eyes moving across his face, “you could help us. Even without telling us what you know about them—“

There’s an odd feeling bubbling in his guts. He thinks he may be sick again. He doesn’t know why it hasn’t occurred to him that he could be used for information against his Brothers. It makes logical sense. He’s not one of them. He’s not one of the Fey. But somehow he’s wound up back on a boat being asked about secrets he can use to save his own skin. He’s not a scared boy though. Not anymore. He’s seen too much of the world to be that. He’s saved he next boy, as many times as he can.

“You should execute me and take some peace from that,” he says, meeting her gaze, “I can’t help you in any other way.”

She looks at him for a long moment and again he wishes that he was back in that simpler time. Maybe he is still a coward, somewhere deep inside. Pym straightens up and turns at the sound of a commotion happening as a Raider stumbles in, clutching the place where his eye used to be.

“Horns on a ship,” he snarls, “blasted Fey. Where’s the healer?”

“I’m here,” she says, her voice steady and confident, “Squirrel go back there. Don’t look.”

“I’ve seen worse,” Squirrel says but comes over to where he’s sitting and drops down next to him, “there’s no girls with the Paladins right? That doesn’t sound so bad.”

He finds he has no answer for that.

Thankfully Squirrel seems content to be quiet.

He can only hope it will last as long as it takes them to cut his throat.


	15. Chapter 15

Pym misses her convictions.

She misses knowing her heart. Even in muddied situations. Nimue never made things clear, but Pym knew she was a good person. She doesn’t know if that’s true of Lancelot. She thinks he was at one point and maybe he has a chance to be again, but she doesn’t know if that’s enough. Right now she looks at him and just sees confusion. But she’s not foolish enough to say he shouldn’t be feared. He should. It feels like her entire life is somehow long gone and freshly burned, all at the same time. Most of the people she sees on the ship are from other Clans. There’s so few Sky Folk. So few of all the different Folk.

The grief in her heart, the grief on all of their faces, all of it should make up her mind.

She doesn’t understand what stops her.

She loves Squirrel, she understands him, his life is worth a lot to her. But that’s not it. She can’t say if saving one life balances out ending so many others. And Squirrel is hers. Saving one life of one Folk won’t make the others hate him less. It doesn’t balance out their grief. How could it? She can’t pity him either. His beginnings were horrible, but it doesn’t change what he did. It doesn’t change the man that he is. It’s not enough of an explanation to justify his actions. There just is no justification. Maybe if he was fully on their side and willing to help—but he doesn’t seem to be there yet either. She saw the look he gave her at the prospect of telling her their secrets. Even though using them against the Paladins had been alright in the moment back in the woods. But the act of telling them to former enemies, somehow that crosses the line.

“The look on your face says I can gut him,” The Red Spear says as she takes a deep breath of the cool air on deck. Her words plunge ice into her heart and she turns, “relax. I didn’t send anyone to cut his throat. I want to do that myself.”

Pym understands that urge. Of course the woman next to her would actually do it. Pym thinks if it came down to it, she could. Or she hopes she could. She’s managed to make it this far without murdering anyone, she’s not sure how much longer she’ll get to keep that shred of innocence.

“I know I’m weak,” Pym says.

“Don’t expect me to disagree.”

“I wasn’t,” she shakes her head, “he’s a terrible person.”

“Everyone’s terrible,” the Red Spear says, “he’s a traitor, that’s worse,” Pym nods, “but you don’t want him dead,” the Red Spear shakes her head, “you know if he kills you it’ll be your own fault,” Pym nods, “but you don’t want him dead?”

“I don’t know!” She says finally, her frustration bubbling up, “I should—“

“I didn’t ask what you should, I asked what you wanted,” Pym shrugs and fumbles for the answer. The Red Spear rolls her eyes, “no wonder you don’t know,” something glints in the Spear’s eyes and she turns, walking down the steps.

“Wait!” Pym tears after her, “I didn’t—“

It takes the Spear several steps to cross to where Lancelot is sitting, grab his hair and wrench his neck back. Pym wants to call her bluff, but she knows that this is no such thing. She’s not bluffing. Lancelot knows it too. She sees his eyes close. His lips move and she realizes he’s praying. Betrayed by everything, he’s still praying. To a God that would see all of them burned. The Red Spear rolls her eyes like she can’t stand hearing the nonsense either and presses the flat of the blade to his throat, choking off his air. She looks at Pym and turns the blade so the edge is back against his skin.

“Well?” The Spear asks, “easy enough.”

“Stop!” Pym barely recognizes her own voice. It’s the tone that she uses on the Raiders when they’re squirming, “I don’t want him dead.”

They both look at her. Then the Red Spear shrugs and removes her knife, taking care to leave a long, shallow cut. Pym looks at her, at the smugness on her face and realizes the Red Spear knew all along. The relief shifts to embarrassment as the Red Spear saunters over.

“That wasn’t so hard was it?” She claps Pym on the back, “if it’s any consolation, it was one of the Red Robed bastards who struck Dof down. Not him,” she hooks her thumbs into her belt, “I’ll leave you to your patient.”

It’s some combination of another clap and the relief that makes her drop onto the bench. Her earlier guilt seems to be erased by the relief she feels after being faced with the prospect of his throat being cut. Faced with the prospect, even dealt by one who deserves to kill him, the idea of him being dead makes her stomach turn. And her stomach isn’t weak. Not anymore. When she lowers her hands she finds the adrenaline is humming through her so hard they are trembling. Her hands haven’t trembled since—well, actually quite recently, if she think about it. And somehow all of them seem to do with Lancelot. Pym’s told herself over and over that she’s used to being friends with dark, strange people that no-one likes, but Nimue was never this infuriating.

“You shouldn’t have stopped her,” are the first words out of his mouth as she kneels down.

“I thought we talked about you learning to have a conversation,” she says. He looks away. It’s odd how being chained up seems to shrink him. It’s only when she’s this close that his size becomes apparent, “I don’t want you dead,” he glances at her, “even if you don’t say anything about your Paladins. I don’t know why since you’ve been using everything against them—“ he looks away again and she understands why the Red Spear rolls her eyes so much, “but I can respect it.”

“No-one else will,” he says.

“Then I’ll just have to stop the next person from cutting your throat,” she says, “tilt your head up,” she blots at the cut, “I’m sorry you got this.”

“It’s nothing,” he says.

“If I hadn’t seen your back I wouldn’t believe that,” she says, “you should try to keep your blood inside you for more than a day.”

He says nothing but the look he gives her is plain enough, but Pym’s not buying it. She’s realized that if if the world doesn’t cut his skin, he does it himself. Whether it’s for his God or so he has something to direct the fire towards or some warped combination of both, fed to him by the Paladins, she can’t say.

“Why don’t you want me dead?” He asks finally, something heavy in his voice.

“I don’t know,” she says, “I don’t want to dishonor the ways I was raised in,” she folds her hands, “I don’t want the world to be as terrible as I was always told it was,” she sighs, “you saved Squirrel, so that counts for something.”

He seems to agree, or at the very least he doesn’t object in his usual way. It counts but it’s not enough, it doesn’t undo anything. Hearing that he wasn’t the one who killed Dof doesn’t change anything either. She realizes that every small thing doesn’t make up for what he did, it never will. She doesn’t know why she keeps straining like she will hear the thing that undoes everything. One life doesn’t matter the same as another. People are not exchangeable. Not like that. She almost wishes that they did. But guilt churns in her stomach because that means someone’s life is worth the same as her parents. Her friends. And she can’t say that.

“It makes sense to kill me,” he says finally.

“Oh now you want to start making sense,” she says, “you have superb timing.”

Surprise makes his eyebrows shoot up, he looks almost comically young. His need for the hood makes more and more sense, the longer she sees him without it. She doesn’t mean to laugh. Truly she doesn’t. It’s inappropriate given their circumstances and the barely dry blood on his throat. But seeing the figure she thought would haunt her dreams for the rest of her days look shocked at her with no underlying urge to kill her is able to draw a laugh. Even out of her. She catches her lip in a futile effort to stop herself.

“I’m sorry, I think this is the first time I’ve seen you look surprised,” she says.

He holds her gaze for another moment and then looks away but she sees the unmistakable twitch of his lips.

“It’s not a feeling I’m used to,” he admits.

“Of course not, that’s why it’s a surprise,” she says, “if you were used to it, it’d just be how you feel.”

He shifts his weight and she watches as he folds his legs into a crossed position, realizing that he’s getting comfortable. The night is taking a very strange turn. He’s sat in more or less one position since she bandaged his wrists. She looks down to make sure everything is alright on that front and it seems to be. At the very least the bandages and wraps are holding.

“I’m sorry if I frightened you before,” he says after she stands up.

She doesn’t turn around and somehow that makes it easier.

“I’m sorry as well, for assuming,” she says.

“I’m not loyal to them anymore.”

She tightens her fist in her skirt until the pain makes he open her hand. She has to remember her burns. She doesn’t know what to say to that. She doesn’t want to condemn him, the smart thing to do would be to lie. But she finds herself unable to do that as well.

“I don’t believe you,” she says finally, “not yet, maybe not ever.”

She hears him shift his weight. She ignores the out that’s offered by the universe and continues to stand there with her back to the former monster. She thinks she hears him open his mouth before he finally speaks, but she doesn’t try to torture herself with guesses.

“Would betraying them prove it? Or just make me a traitor again?”

Damn him for throwing things back into grey and frustration. Irrationally she feels a stab of longing for moments ago, sitting in front of him watching him try not to smile.

“It would help keep us safe,” she says.

“That isn’t what I asked,” he says.

“I don’t know,” she admits, “it would help but the others—“

“I wasn’t asking about them,” he cuts in.

The oddest chill runs through her spine. It’s not a bad chill, not the heavy blocks and shards of ice that he usually seems to inspire in her. Just a chill that makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. It’s the same kind of chill she felt when Dof would smile at her, when he called her Minnow. Maybe it’s just the kind of chill she’s destined to always get when men look at her, even if only the dangerous one seem to be able to inspire her. The thought of him seeing the hairs on the back of her neck stand up is ridiculous and exactly the kind of thing he would do, so she turns around. His eyes catch hers before she’s even fully turned. She’s got height on him for once but that doesn’t stop her from raising her chin.

“Keeping the others safe would help,” she says, “you can’t undo being a traitor. But I don’t care if you betray them to show you’re loyal,” she toys with the edge of the bandage, “but if it means you let them kill you, then there’s no chance of it.”

He seems to consider her words and then ducks his head in some kind of acknowledgement before looking away. Pym watches but he doesn’t shift back to his uncomfortable position or do any of the things he seems prone to doing after conversations go poorly. He looks thoughtful instead. Or maybe he’s just torturing himself mentally. She doesn’t know. But at this point she figures mental torture might be the best of the options.

Her bar for progress is laughably low.

But at least there’s a bar at all.


	16. Chapter 16

The pull of gravity wakes him.

The gentle lull of the ship has become decidedly more violent. He can hear the waves against the hull and the swears of the Raiders. The nausea is back, along with the knot of panic. He pushes them both aside. The panic goes easier but he can deal with the nausea for longer. Suddenly being chained up is a much more pressing problem. The threat of being struck by debris is more present, but the threat of drowning follows on its heals. He pinpoints Pym and Squirrel with their scent, both still in their hammocks. It’s Squirrel who wakes first, sitting up and timing his exit with the rocking of the boat. Squirrel lands quieter than he thought and immediately looks over at him and then at Pym before coming over. He moves his hands away as the boy reaches for the chains.

“Don’t touch them,” he say.

He sees the flash of Pym’s hair as she sits up and looks around. She gets out of the hammock, shifting her weight with the rock of the boat. Out of the three of them, she has the most practice. She motions for both of them to stay where they are and makes her way up to the deck and peers out. He can’t see where she goes or what she sees, but a moment later she’s back. She moves faster, moving back into the shadows. There’s worry on her face.

“There’s no rain, no wind,” she says, “whatever’s happening out there, it’s not natural,” she drops to her knees by him and takes one of the shackles in her hands, looking at the mechanism. She hurries back to her healer bag and returns with a pair of pliers he doesn’t want to imagine inside a person. She finds the pin in one and pulls it out. Then she does the other. Both open. “I suppose they never thought we’d get past the iron.”

He wraps his hand in his cloak and puts both pins back into the shackles. The best case scenario is that he’ll be in them soon enough, but he’s glad to have his freedom as the boat lurches even more violently. It’s The Red Spear who sticks her head down and looks at the three of them and then motions them up to join the others on deck. He was only on deck for moments before, now he quickly takes in as much information as he can about the area. His eyes track over to where the horses are. It’s easy to pick out Goliath in his makeshift stall. Goliath is safe for now. So is the other horse. He turns to where Pym and Squirrel are standing.

“What’s happening?” Pym questions.

“Some kind of Fey magic,” Arthur says.

He focuses and breathes in the air. There’s Fey but it’s not that simple. It’s a tangle of Fey, of steel and ash and something else. Something like the smell of someone whose life is at the moment of leaving them. It’s a smell he’s familiar with, but even in vast quantities it’s never like this.

“This isn’t just Fey,” he says.

Where there was nothing there is suddenly a shimmer of black that solidifies and forms a woman. She wears a spectacular gown and a veil. Immediately she pulls it off.

It’s Sister Igraine.

But it’s not, not in the way that he’s used to seeing her. When she went by another name. She’s dressed in black that whips around in an invisible wind. The veil is pushed back and her hair is free and wild. He remembers the nun who chafed against the veil. Her attention is upward as she looks through the sky. There’s a crack and then lightening strikes down. Except it’s not natural lightening and what it deposits is a bellowing wizard who reeks of booze and magic and the salt of sweat and tears. He shoves himself to his feet, using the Sword as his cane. Sister Igraine gives him a look of utter disgust as she pulls him up.

“Did we get lost?”

She looks around and the wild power breaks. For a moment she looks young and free. It’s a shocking change, from any way that he’s seen her.

“Brother.”

“Morgana,” Arthur says as she gathers up her skirts and runs to her brother’s embrace.

She’s different, he can see it. But he hides the look and embraces her easily. Like she hasn’t just landed on the deck of the boat in the midst of a magical storm. Merlin sways on his feet as he looks around at all of them. The Wizard’s gaze focuses on him first. He swears loudly. Loud enough for Morgana to turn and spot him as well.

“You,” she says, “what the hell are you doing here?”

She appears in front of him instantly, coalescing in a cloud of black. When she does her veil is back covering her face. When she flips it off, her expression is just as angry. He knew that she never wanted to be with the nuns. That was as clear as day. But he chalked it up to a lack of faith since she came to them so late. She hadn’t been molded, her faith hadn’t been tempered. Now he can see the outright hatred written all over her face. She hid it well.

“He’s with us now,” Squirrel pipes up.

“On Father Carden’s orders maybe,” she says. There’s a glimmer of something in her eyes that he doesn’t like, “did you wonder why you haven’t heard from him?”

“He’s not taking orders from him,” Squirrel says again as Pym pulls him back, “he saved me.”

He knows why he hasn’t gotten orders, but the look on her face begs him to ask why.

“Why?” He asks.

“Because he’s dead,” she says. She looks around apologetically at Pym, “so’s Nimue. She got shot off a bridge by Sister Iris,” she focuses on him again with a look of complete loathing, “but at least she beheaded your precious Father before she died,” Morgana spits.

The ship is still but it also feels like the deck has plunged into the waves. He knew the moment he ran that he would only ever see Father again if he was about to be executed. But there was some comfort in knowing he was out there. Even if it was to hunt him down. The idea that he’s dead makes Lancelot’s head spin. The world suddenly feels vast and empty. Like some tether to his past has been cut and he is now hollow as a bird’s bone. It’s been drilled into him again and again that he needs to be in control of his emotions but all his control sounds like Father’s voice. And it echoes in his heart that his voice is never going to be heard again. That voice exists only as a memory. As ephemeral as the Grace that has always eluded him.

He’s destined for the hellfire, he’ll never see Father again.

It takes a moment for the pain to register.

When he looks down there’s a knife buried in his side. When he looks up, Arthur is staring back at him. His eyes drag across several horrified faces but they settle on Pym. Both her hands are open, but when he looks back at the handle of the knife he remembers it well. It’s one of hers. Morgana’s vicious look is a sharp contrast to the one on her brother’s face. He tries to figure out what happened. He has a vague, vague recollection of promising not to get himself killed. Of trying to find a way to help. Getting stabbed is not exactly in the plan. Arthur has reason to stab him, he supposes. But it’s still a shock. It’s even more of a shock when Arthur hauls him up and shoulders his weight as his knees buckle.

“Well throw him overboard or take him down, but lets not gawk while he dies.”

“I want to watch,” Morgana says.

“This isn’t a circus,” The Red Spear snaps.

Arthur hauls him down the stairs. He’s surprised Pym follows, but he guesses that she has to keep the show up. Arthur gets him onto the table but keeps him upright. He looks at him questioningly. It doesn’t make sense that Arthur squeezes his shoulder. But maybe the man just doesn’t want him to die as the pathetic creature he is. Arthur’s brow draws together and he looks over his shoulder, tracking Pym’s movements as she hurries back over.

“What the hell did I just do?” He hisses.

“I can’t tell you that,” she says.

“What do you mean you can’t tell me that?” He drops his voice, “I just may have killed someone I thought we were trying to save.”

“Don’t ask me that,” she says. She probes the knife, “just hold him steady,” she glances up, “and close your eyes.”

“Close my—“ Arthur exhales sharply, “what—“ he stares at Pym for a moment, “alright fine.”

Arthur shifts his grip and He feels himself being held back against Arthur’s chest. He’s used to being spread out on tables and told to hold still. He looks down as Pym inspects her knife and realizes vaguely that there’s no blood. That when she tries to move it, his skin pulls. He’s healed. He vaguely realizes. There’s no gentle way to do it. Pym seems to realize it too. She braces her foot and looks up at him apologetically before she yanks the knife out and shoves a cloth full of dirt against the wound. He manages to get a hand free from Arthur’s grasp and clap it over the dirt, letting the earth heal the damage. It’s not enough to heal it entirely but it’s enough to make sure it’s not the thing that kills him. Pym looks over his shoulder and then grabs his hands.

The bandages are gone.

There’s just fine white ash on his skin.

“Can I open my eyes?” Arthur asks.

“Yes,” Pym says, flattening her hand against his stomach. Arthur opens his eyes, “he’ll be okay. Can you keep an eye on Squirrel? I need to finish and I don’t want him to see this,” Arthur looks at the both of them and then nods, “thank you.”

She watches him go and then her knees seem to weaken. She drops the cloth and grips the edge of the table.

“No-one saw,” she says, “I’m sure of it,” she shakes her head, “I didn’t know what else to do,” she swallows, “Arthur saw me and just finished it.”

Arthur seems to know how to do what is necessary. He has recognized that about him since the Mill. It doesn’t surprise him that the man would choose to spare Pym the guilt. He can’t even say for sure that Arthur wants to kill him. He’s had plenty of opportunity but he doesn’t. He hates the thought that a man like Arthur might understand his situation, might be sympathetic to him. It makes him feel uniquely guilty about how close he’s coming to killing him. About the part of him that wants to kill him still.

“You did the right thing,” he says.

“There is nothing right about this,” she replies.

He remembers that Father is dead. That the sword Father prized did it. The witch he failed to capture wielded it and the traitor he didn’t even know was in their ranks was also there. Father’s death reeks of his own failure. His back itches for penance he no longer has the right to. He needs guidance, he needs Father’s convictions back. He looks over at Pym who stares out at the deck.

“She’s not dead,” she says finally, like she needs to say the words aloud, “They said she fell,” she says, “she was shot and she fell. She could still be alive,” she brushes her hands down her front, like she’s wiping the thought off of her, “that wizard reeked of booze anyway. Who knows what he saw?”

The frantic energy changes her scent. He can see the misgivings on her face, like she is trying to convince herself of her own words. He’s seen people survive worse, he’s also seen less kill men. It’s not a sure thing either way. The only sure thing is that Father is dead and he has somehow produced the Fire without the kind of fuel he’s used to requiring. He watches Pym wring her hands again. If she keeps It up he knows that she’s going to hurt her hand. Covering hers with one of his own is a strange thing, but it seems like the best option in the given circumstances. She stiffens and looks at him.

“You’re going to open your other hand,” he says.

“Oh, right,” she shakes her head, “of course i—“

“She should have been dead a long time ago, you’ve both managed to survive,” he says.

“She’s powerful,” Pym says, “much more powerful than I am. It shouldn’t be a problem,” she tries to smile, “he doesn’t know her. He wasn’t her father in any real way,” she follows his gaze as Squirrel appears at the top of the stairs, “what’s wrong?” Pym asks immediately.

“I think I killed Nimue,” Squirrel says.

“You couldn’t have, she’s not dead,” Pym says.

“I taught that girl how to shoot,” Squirrel whispers, “I didn’t know—“

Pym drops his hand to wrap her arms around Squirrel as he bawls into the front of her dress. Squirrel clings to her and he feels his stomach turn. Not hurting the little ones was always a lie, but seeing it thrown in his face reignites the guilt. Squirrel weeps long enough for it to recede, long enough for him to wonder if he’s crying over Nimue or if everything has just caught up to him. He can remember Father teaching him about the shame and selfishness of his emotions. But when he thinks about it now, he remembers a half forgotten voice of a long forgotten face, telling him to learn to temper them. That it was important so one day when he was older and stronger, he wouldn’t accidentally burn the village down. The two voices both belong to the dead and jumble around in his mind. It should be simple to separate them but it’s not. For the first time he’s seen, Squirrel cries until he looks very much like a boy. A child. Which he is. But seeing him rubbing his eyes and sniffling makes him seem so much smaller.

“You didn’t know,” Pym says again, “Nimue would never blame you.”

“Do you hate me?” Squirrel asks, “please don’t hate me—“

“Of course i don’t hate you,” Pym says, “I don’t hate Lancelot, how could I hate you for something you didn’t know?” Squirrel thinks for a moment and then looks fractionally less upset.

“She was always a zealot,” He says finally, “she would have found another way.”

“You weren’t really waiting for orders were you?” Squirrel asks.

“No,” he says, “I wanted to know what she knew.”

“That he’s dead.”

It’s still crippling to hear but not as stunning as before. He nods. He doesn’t expect sympathy from either of them. From anyone really. Paladins lives were always dedicated to the after life anyway. Dying honorably in service to His Glory was their greatest hope. There were never any tears for the dead, just prayers to speed along their journey. Did he die honorably? He doesn’t know what that means anymore. He doesn’t know if he should mourn the man who burned down his home and his family, who warped him into the twisted thing he is now.

He just knows that he does.


	17. Chapter 17

She dreams that she kills him.

He dies with a look of surprise on his face, the same one he gave when she teased him. The knife that they’ve both used doesn’t go into his side, it goes into his heart. He dies before he hits the deck and the green fire she sees lapping his fingers erupts from everywhere and they all die. The ship doesn’t sink, it just settles on top of the water in a could of fine, white ash that gets whisked away by the waves.

The dream shifts and when she goes to stop him and Arthur takes the blade from her, Lancelot stops him this time. They all die the same way, in that blaze of green. Except he survives and he sinks down, trailing red. He drowns. She watched him sink and when he looks up it’s not his face but Nimue who stares back at her as the black depths swallow her whole.

Pym’s long since learned not to scream when she has a nightmare.

But she doesn’t go back to sleep either.

She realizes that Lancelot is gone. They’ve only been sleeping in proximity for a handful of nights, but she notices his absence immediately. She makes sure Squirrel is still asleep. Reasoning he’ll be alright for a little bit, she slips out of her hammock. Just to be safe she tucks the amulet in with him and then goes to look for Lancelot.

Pym finds him on the deck, with the horses.

She doesn’t know why she is hovering. He’s fine, physically speaking. Emotionally he seems as bad as usual, maybe a bit worse. She can tell herself that she doesn’t want him to accidentally burn the ship down or that she needs the reassurance that stabbing him didn’t kill him. But neither of those things are true. She likes being tucked into her familiar corner of the ship. It’s the only familiar thing she has these days. But he’s out wandering about and so she finds herself doing the same.

“You’re following me,” he says.

“Figured I’d turn the tables,” she replies. He gives her a sharp look and she tries to smile, “I wanted to see if you wanted the company,” he looks away, “or I can go back down.”

He’s silent for a moment as though considering her words.

“Stay,” he says finally.

She nods. He must have visited Goliath already, she’s surprised to see him with their other traveling companion. Goliath though raises his head and lips at her braid playfully. She offers her hand instead. Lancelot glances at him and he pulls his head up but she scratches his nose.

“It’s alright,” she says, “I’ve been handled by worse,” she glances at him, “couldn’t sleep?” He says nothing, “neither could I. I tried to but I just kept seeing myself stabbing you or Arthur doing it but in the wrong place and it somehow killing you.”

“It wouldn’t have been a terrible way to die,” he says.

“It would have been terrible for me,” she says.

He looks over at her sharply again. Pym is no stranger to frustrating people with her knack for stating the obvious, but he doesn’t seem frustrated. She supposes that will come soon enough. He seems surprised though. Again. The image of him trying to smile overlays nicely with the dream of him dying because of her. She wants to apologize and explain, but it’s hard to explain when you can’t say why you did something. She knows everyone on the ship will think that Arthur did it to protect his sister or for honor or something. No-one will be mad about it. Only upset that he didn’t die.

“I couldn’t think of another way—“ she starts, “I’m sorry though.”

“Don’t be,” he says, “you did what needed to be done.”

“Arthur did,” she corrects, “but you got hurt,” she adds. When he raises an eyebrow she can’t help but roll her eyes, “yes I know you’ve been hurt before, but like I said I wanted to get through a day where you kept your blood inside you. I thought that was possible.”

“But a wizard, an undead nun and a magical sword threw it off,” he says dryly.

It draws a smile out of her and softens the look on his face, just fractionally.

He’s almost right. Those things certainly contributed. Though really it was his emotional reaction that dashed her dreams of not seeing his blood for one day. She can’t blame him for that. It’s horrifying when she thinks about it and realizes how neatly it all fits together. He’s been harming himself or getting hurt constantly. And that seems to be the only control he knows. But finding out the closest thing he had to family has been murdered, well that’s enough to undo anyone’s control. Especially if they aren’t injured. The marks on his back, that evil uncomfortable shirt, all of it seems to be enough and his life seems built around getting hurt worse if he’s going to be upset enough to lose control. He said he couldn’t make fire independently, but a few strips of muslin seems like a paltry amount. She doubts that he’s ever tried to do it.

For all his training, he’s untrained in the way that could truly kill them all.

“There were boys in my village who were horrible to me and Nimue, but I get sad when I think of them being dead,” she says. The soft look vanishes and he turns his head away. She can see that she’s pressed a nerve, but sometimes pressing is the only way to get the knot worked out, “I wouldn’t judge you for being sad about him being dead.”

“There’s no reason to be sad,” he says, “he went to our Heavenly Father.”

“Our what?” He stiffens. She frowns, “you don’t tell us what you believe in,” she says, “just that killing us is God’s work. You were going to tell us about Saint Paul but—“ she waves a hand, “other things happened.”

“You don’t care about my beliefs,” he says.

“I don’t know your beliefs,” she retorts, “I’ve only seen them being used as a justification for pain and death,” she says, “and yes it’s enough to ‘not care’ but we’ve got to start somewhere,” she continues, “besides I’ve seen my own beliefs used to justify things I don’t agree with,” he glances at her, “so tell me why there’s no reason to be said, even though—“ she trails off. He turns around and looks at her, “even though you clearly are,” she finishes.

Lancelot looks at her quietly for a long moment. Long enough for her to take several breaths, long enough for her to wonder what on earth she’s doing asking about his beliefs. It’s easier to talk about those than it is to talk about the fact that she has no problem with the Paladin being dead. With all of them being dead. Because then she’s going to have to reckon with the fact that there’s one she doesn’t want dead. He isn’t the only one who wonders if what they’re doing makes them a traitor. Hers is just appropriately weaker than his. Pym’s never been one for the adventures that she’s been on. Her stakes have never been high. If she dies it’s not cause for a wizard to go mad or for long forgotten impossible Fey Fire to appear. She has to keep things in perspective.

“Our bodies don’t matter, it’s our souls,” he starts finally. 

It’s as grim a religion as she would expect. Even the hopeful bits are full of punishment and suffering. He’s right, everything seems to be about what comes after death. Like life is set up to be one big game that you either win or face eternal damnation. It seems like a horrible way to live. It does shed light on Lancelot’s thought process though. If her entire life was centered around the afterlife, she doesn’t know if she would think differently. She’s glad it’s not something she has to consider. It also strikes her how his voice turns when he talks about it. She isn’t sure she’s ever heard something so close to affection in his tone. It’s unsettling to hear, so she tries instead to focus on what he’s saying. Instead of how he’s saying it. She’s grateful for Goliath being so close. At least it gives her something to do with her hands.

“I don’t know how killing in the name of your God can be different from killing in any other way,” she says finally, “doesn’t everyone who justifies killing justify it as defense?”

“Everyone isn’t the Pope,” he says.

“Well we can be thankful for that at least,” she says. He frowns, “his guards did try to kill you twice,” he shrugs, “you can’t really think you deserve that—you protected a child. They weren’t hunting you when you weren’t doing that. Doesn’t that seem wrong to you?”

He opens his mouth and then presses his lips together. 

But his hesitation is the answer.

Lancelot never seems to hesitate when he’s sure. There was a time not too long ago when she would have fled at the sight of a Raider, not been relieved. Life seems determined to test what she thinks of as comfortable. When she was out in the world, she had the strangest urge to go back and yell at all of the people who kept her sheltered from it. Even if they were trying to protect her. She wanted them to know how wrong they were. It’s odd to think that if things had turned out differently she may have lived and died in the same place. Without ever setting a foot elsewhere.

“It’s not a crime to admit you were wrong,” she says finally, “it doesn’t make you faithless or weak,” he doesn’t seem to agree, “and that is what you get for being surrounded by men.”

“What?”

“Women can admit when they’re wrong,” Pym says, “I can admit that I was wrong about the Raiders. You can’t admit that they were wrong to hunt you because you chose to save a boy.”

“It’s not that simple,” he says.

“Or you can’t admit it,” she replies.

His eyes narrow but she doesn’t feel the same kind of fear she did. It’s helped a little by the color she can see starting to stain his cheeks. Things in his life seem to fall into the same odd few categories. Those that offend his skewed morals, those that are hard to think about in relation to his skewed morals, things that are tolerable and women. It’s almost funny. Almost. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen a Fey who has no idea what to do with a woman. From everything he’s told her his entire religion seems to look down on them in particular. The root of evil. How no-one told them it was preposterous is beyond her. Then again, from what she’s seen of men it makes sense.

“That’s not the only reason—“ he stops as she tries not to laugh, “I know their secrets.”

“But you won’t tell them.”

“They don’t know that,” he says.

“Have they not spoken to you before?”

“Not willingly.”

She refuses to feel pity for him. Or to justify his actions with his sad story. That won’t bring back any of the Fey he’s killed, no more than it will bring back his own long dead family. Though if she was faced with the choice of talking to a religious zealot who thought everything she did was an affront to god or talking to Goliath, she would pick the horse. So she does and she turns to give him her full attention.

“We believe that when you die you pass into the twilight,” she says, “we all go to the same place. We all change in the same way.”

Out of the corner of her eye she sees him move closer. Goliath is clever and tilts his head. Like this is something they’ve done a lot. Lancelot doesn’t even need to look to find the spot the horse likes.

“All of you?” He asks after a moment.

“Everyone,” she says, “that’s why we believe all Fey are brothers. Or sisters,” he looks down, looking almost disappointed, “oh please, becoming one with us can’t be nearly as bad as ‘burning in eternal hellfire’. We believe loved animals go there too, so Goliath would be there,” she looks at him, “tell me that doesn’t sound awful.”

He sighs.

“It doesn’t sound terrible.”

She figures that’s close enough.


	18. Chapter 18

Squirrel has stopped talking.

Not entirely, not on purpose, but the endless stream of chatter is absent. Despite spending nearly every moment praying for the boy to shut up or stay on topic, he feels himself worrying. The silence isn’t natural for the boy. He’s done several things to keep this from happening, and somehow once again this shadow of himself is quiet and miserable and in mourning on a boat that carries to him places unknown. The irony of the situation is not lost on him.

“You’ve stopped talking.”

Squirrel shrugs.

“I’ve never heard a Knight of the Fey be so quiet.”

It takes the boys brow a moment to furrow and realize the insult. But then it smooths out and he goes back to being sad and quiet. Usually Squirrel is the one who carries their conversations. Seeing Squirrel sitting there hunched over and silent makes it far more difficult. He’s never had a problem with the silence. He still prefers it. But he is not the boy next to him, drowning in his own guilt. Guilt that he doesn’t deserve, given he had no way of knowing. But it’s guilt he has, guilt he seems determined to carry. Because the boy is stubborn and brave and he’s not stupid enough to think that he can change his mind.

“You must be good with a bow if you can teach someone,” he tries again, “who taught you to shoot?”

“My father,” Squirrel mumbles.

Of course. The father that he was waiting for. The father that he killed. There’s no malice in Squirrel’s voice, no accusation, even though there’s every right to be. Squirrel just says it like a simple fact. It occurs to him that everything he asks the boy is going to go back to his past and be connected to the boy’s family or friends or someone in the boy’s village. He’s no stranger to saying things that others deem foolish, he’s learned not to speak unless necessary, lest he give himself away. But that doesn’t make speaking any easier. Especially not to someone whose family he murdered. The Abbot was right, he does see familiarity in the boy. Deep down he knows he never forgave the Paladins for what they did to his home, no more than he forgave himself for not dying with them. He just never anticipated that one day he would yearn for that forgiveness. Like he always yearned for His Grace.

“How did you know she was a—“ he frowns at the unfamiliar term.

“A zealot?” Squirrel nods, “her actions,” he explains. Squirrel looks disappointed, “I cannot sniff out people’s intentions,” he says, “though it would make life far easier.”

“Are you trying to tell a joke?” Squirrel asks, his brows drawing together, “you’re not good at it.”

He doesn’t think he was trying to tell a joke but the childish rebuke is better than the silence. Instead of sitting curled into himself Squirrel relaxes for the first time, just fractionally. But it’s a start. When Squirrel shifts so that he’s facing him, it feels like a victory. He tells himself that there was no point in making sure the boy was safe if he just winds up like him anyway. He’s in this now, he may as well be in it properly. It has nothing to do with affection for the boy. That would be a stupid thing to develop considering it’s only a matter of time before this all falls apart or the boy remembers to be mad at him properly. But somehow that doesn’t stop him from sitting there. Stubbornness has always been one of his faults.

“Did your father teach you how to shoot?” Squirrel asks.

“I don’t remember my father,” he says.

“That’s too bad,” Squirrel shrugs, “he probably did. Most boys learn around my age so you probably got taught,” he looks at the boy sharply, “they said I reminded you of someone. I think they were talking about you. So you were my age when you joined them.”

He follows his reasoning well enough, but its unnerving to hear. He’s starting to think that all of the Fey are like this. When they aren’t running for their lives anyway. Squirrel is evidence that some of them are like this when they are. He’s always held himself away from them, always preferring to fight them at a distance when possible. He’s a tracker, he’s meant to go ahead and leave the cleansing to the Paladins. Immediately he chastises himself for the thought. He leads the Paladins there but his hands are just as bloody. There’s no comfort in not seeing it. He causes their screams just as much. More, if he’s being honest with himself.

“Do you remember your mother?” Squirrel asks.

“Not really.”

“That’s too bad,” the boy looks down at the table, “am I going to forget my parents?”

“No,” he says sharply. Squirrel stares at him, “close your eyes,” he says. The boy does it. For the first time he can think that the boy is entirely too trusting, but the thought isn’t immediately followed by how easy it would be to kill him, “think of coming home and entering your house,” he says, “do you see the change in the light? Feel the change in the temperature? The smells?” He nods, “where are your parents?”

“My mother’s by the fire,” Squirrel says, “my father’s coming in behind me.”

“Go inside,” he says and waits a moment, “look around your home. What is your mother making?”

“Bread,” he says, “I can smell it.”

He lets Squirrel stay in the memory for a moment longer. Watching as he relaxes further at the comforting thought. That’s the thing though, memory is never perfect. Examining it too closely always seems to bring up the cracks. Or worse it will lead him to a bad memory.

“Open your eyes,” he says.

Squirrel does it instantly and looks around. For a moment all of the sadness is gone from his face. He looks like an innocent boy whose hardest trail is the people he chooses to associate with. Not that that seems to have changed. The guilt and sadness creeps into his eyes again but he seems to shoulder it a tiny bit better. His eyes are clearer when he looks at him. An odd sense of longing nestles in his chest. He’s been taught to hate the feeling, that it is another temptation sent to lure him from the Road. But there’s no-one to tell him that now. He lets the ache stay and tremble like a living thing. Squirrel finds comfort in home. He’s long since made himself forget his. He’s not jealous of the boy but he finds he aches for what he’s capable of remembering. The strength he draws from it.

  
“I remember them,” Squirrel says, “you should try. Close your eyes.”

“It’s been too long for me,” he says.

“You won’t know if you don’t try, I could help,” he says, “come on Lancelot.”

There’s a flash of black. He’s got no weapons but he stands up and turns, putting himself between the boy and Sister Igraine. Morgana. It’s madness how the two of them have wound up here, so far from where they were. But Morgana is suited to this place, far more than she was ever suited to the Faith. She pulls off her veil and looks him up and down.

“Go check on Pym,” he says to Squirrel, pushing him towards the deck, “don’t come back here.”

Morgana watches the boy go but doesn’t try to stop him. Whatever dark thing she’s become, it seems there’s some humanity left in her after all. She steps forward and he matches her, keeping the same measure of distance between them. He knew she did not believe like her Sisters, but he thought that she wanted to. He can see now that the frustration was not at herself but at the Church. And yet they’ve both wound up on the ship, irrevocably changed from the people who stood before God.

“Surprised you haven’t swam back to shore yet to find your Brothers,” she says, “or are you waiting to murder everyone here?” She tilts her head, “or do you not believe me that your precious Father Carden is dead?”

“I’m not here to murder anyone,” he says finally.

“You know I thought you couldn’t speak,” she says, as though he didn’t say anything, “not without being spoken to first,” they continue to circle each other, “now you’ve found your voice. I wonder what your victims would think of that.”

He has no retort. He knows what they would think of it. In the very near past he would say that she couldn’t truly speak to the dead, that they were burning in hellfire, but now he doesn’t have that assurance. Maybe she can speak to the dead. The smell of death hangs around her like another veil. She could be on him in an instant but she keeps circling. She’s toying with him, he realizes. Or she has a plan for him. Neither makes him feel better about the situation. But at the same time he doesn’t feel the yearning for death he’s used to feeling going into battle. If that’s what this is.

“So why are you here?” She asks. He says nothing and she vanishes and appears in front of him, veiled again. It seems to be a part of it, “that wasn’t rhetorical. Why are you here, Monk?”

The word smarts like it’s a blow. He’s had a thousand derogatory names, Monk is the most kind. It’s also a sharp reminder that he’s standing among the Fey. Most of the things that marked him as a Holy Man are gone. It won’t be long before his hair grows and his tonsure joins the rest of it. He never felt the Grace when he was getting those things, not the way his Brothers did. But he felt closer to God in those moments than he can remember. Morgana tilts her head like she’s about to strike. He would deserve worse.

“Why are you here?” She repeats, “Monk?”

“My name is Lancelot,” tears out of him, “I’m not a Monk anymore than you are a Nun. Why are you here?”

“For my brother,” she says instantly, because Morgana has always had her convictions. She drags her eyes across his face, “you’ll never make up for what you did to them. And they deserve better than being used for your flagellation. Especially those two,” something shows on his face because triumph glows in her eyes, “don’t get comfortable around them. If Nimue isn’t here to protect them, I will be.”

He doesn’t doubt it or her ability to do so. She gives him a last hard look and vanishes in that same, unsettling, ephemeral way. He’s used to knowing his enemy. He’s had the same one for long enough. He’s used to knowing how the world works. He was not expecting every facet to fall apart as quickly as it had. The timing of it is almost poetic. In these situations he would normally pray. For guidance, for strength, for any of it. But there’s no God here, maybe there never was. There’s nothing to ask for strength or guidance or direction.

“Lancelot?”

Despite his very clear instructions, Squirrel is back and he’s brought Pym. On her heels he can see Arthur, a hand on his blade. It seems odd to him that this man who should be back with his own kind is here protecting everyone. Because it’s the right thing to do, because of the woman he loved, because of something he doesn’t think he understands. But he’s here. With no promise of payoff. Arthur barely knows Pym and yet there’s no doubt in his mind that if it came to it, Arthur would throw himself in front of a blade for her.

“She’s back on the deck,” Arthur says. There’s a loud swear from the Red Spear, “you may want to get ready,” he says to Pym, “Morgana!” He calls after her and charges back up.

“You were to stay away,” he reminds Squirrel.

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Squirrel says, “I’m the Knight, remember?”

Something relaxes in him at Squirrel sounding like a boy again. Over his head he catches Pym’s eye and the relief he feels is echoed back on her face. It’s just a moment but for the first time Lancelot feels as though things are as they should be.

Just for a moment.


	19. Chapter 19

“Here’s our destination,” Merlin says.

“That’s a lake. Are you mad?”

“Quite,” Merlin replies, “it’s still our destination.”

No-one notices as she peers over at the map spread out on the table. It’s lake alright. After all the things she’s seen, it’s not the strangest thing someone has suggested. She doesn’t doubt that Merlin would have ideas for where they should go, though he’s thought of as a traitor. But something about the prospect of following Merlin’s directions troubles her. Something about all of this troubles her. She finds herself anxious about leaving the ship. About leaving the Raiders. About going to a new home that seems vulnerable to the same things that cost her the last one. She feels almost queasy as she moves away from the conversation and over to where Squirrel and Lancelot are sitting. No-one wants either of them to listen to the decisions being made. Squirrel because he’s a boy. Lancelot because he’s Lancelot.

“Where are we going?” Squirrel asks.

“A lake,” she says. He frowns. She shrugs and looks back over at where the others are standing, “I don’t understand either,” she admits, “we shouldn’t be listening to him,” she looks back at Lancelot, “right?”

He seems surprised that she’s look at him for confirmation. Especially about Fey business. But she can see that the Folk who are around here are desperate. They want to go to a new home. They want off this ship. Lancelot is the only one whose mind is running along the same lines as her. Off this ship is another unknown. Another place that could be good or bad, but a place that will require yet another new beginning. She’s starting to wonder how many of those she has left in her. She can feel her temples aching with the prospect of it. She’s spent this entire time hoping for a new place to call home and now, assuming that Merlin is not about to send them all to their deaths, the prospect of it makes her feel sick.

“He would want you safe for Nimue,” Lancelot says, “Morgana wouldn’t let him speak otherwise.”

Shame churns in her gut. She knows he’s right but that makes her own hesitation even worse. Nimue sent these people to make sure they found their way to safety. She’s never given her a reason not to trust her. Or to doubt her. But when she looks at them all she feels is doubt. Morgana is beyond this world and Merlin has done horrible things to the Fey Folk. But a creeping little voice whispers that Nimue sent them and they will be accepted as they should be. It feels wrong. She cannot figure out why it feels that way but it does. It makes her feel like a bad subject and a worse friend. If Nimue is alive she thinks she’ll have to apologize. If she’s dead—she cuts off the thought. She is not dead. She’s sent these people ahead and because they don’t know her as well as Pym does, they just think she’s gone.

All of it feels unsettling.

She’s spent a long time being told the company she keeps is wrong, but in her heart she always knew what was right and what was wrong. Now things are not that simple, not anymore. If she puts aside what she should think and focuses on what she does think, she knows she trusts Morgana and Merlin to help for Nimue’s sake, she trusts them to do what is safest for the Fey Folk. She doesn’t trust that what’s safest for them is right for her. She feels different. Like she’s not entirely Fey anymore. They’ve all been through horrible things, none of them are the same they were when they had their homes. But she feels removed even from that. She doesn’t feel the same desperation she sees on their faces to find somewhere and put down roots. Rather she feels as though she should feel that way. But it’s like looking at a cutting of a plant and being unsure if it is even capable of growing them.

“What’s wrong?” Squirrel asks, “you’ve got that look on your face.”

  
“I don’t have a look on my face,” she says automatically. The two of them trade glances, “I don’t,” she insists, “I’m just not sure about living in the middle of a lake.”

“There’s probably an island,” Squirrel points out.

“Yes I know,” she says, “it doesn’t change anything.”

She feels bad for snapping at him but she supposes it will have to be added to her list of things. It’s getting long. She’s used to being someone that people think of as objectively good. Now she feels wrong. She hears the quick exchange of whispers and then turns to see Squirrel getting up and slouching off. She doesn’t want to snap again but she also doesn’t want to talk. Squirrel is also a boy. She’s grateful for anyone who understands how she feels, even just a little. But he’s a child. No matter how the world treats him, she’d like him to keep that for a little while longer. Lancelot looks at her and she smiles.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Why don’t you want to go to the island?” He asks.

“Do you want to go to it?” She counters.

“I wouldn’t be welcome there,” he says in that easy, factual way of his.

Of course he wouldn’t. There’s no Nimue to vouch for him. The thought hits her and suddenly the bitter feeling has a name. She’s jealous. Jealous that some get a pass and some do not. Jealous that some can go home and some cannot. She doesn’t even have anyone in particular to direct that anger to. Nimue has had a hard road to become the Queen she is, Pym is nothing but proud of her. Lancelot did the things he did and she can’t blame anyone who only sees death when they look at him. She already hates the Paladins, but she knows she can’t live her life by hating things. Not without becoming something she’ll hate herself.

“But would you want to be?” She asks. He looks away silently, pressing his lips together. She’s not surprised he doesn’t know the answer, “you’re Fey. If this is to be the Fey homeland, you would be allowed there,” he nods, “but I can see how being somewhere you’re not wanted wouldn’t be appealing,” she offers.

“Why don’t you want to go there?” He asks.

She tries not to think about how he’s given her another reason just now. Talking about the Fey remains a touchy subject for him. For all of them. She toys with the edge of her bandage, it’s becoming a nervous habit. She’s not sure what she’ll do when it’s gone. It’s almost time to remove it.

“I’m not sure I’d belong there,” she admits finally, “it sounds foolish, I was happy back where I was,” she explains, “but now I’ve become a passable healer and gone on these adventures. I don’t know, it feels like I’ve seen too much of the world to hide from it again,” she tries to smile, “besides a new home isn’t going to be the same.”

He listens quietly and doesn’t react negatively, even though she’s sure she’s said a dozen things he could take the wrong way. It’s confusing because he’s somehow the one responsible for burning down her home and the one who understands being changed by the things that follow after it. It’s not like being friends with Nimue, where she knows that people are being foolish for ostracizing her. It’s not that simple. People aren’t foolish for ostracizing him right now, but the longer he stays the more she feels things tipping that way. The idea of being on his side is a complicated one that fills her with dread, but it’s not nearly as unpleasant as the thought of him leaving.

“Besides, I don’t think I’d want to be in a place that you couldn’t at least visit,” she adds. He’s getting better at controlling the surprised look that she seems to bring up on his face, but she catches the glimmer of it. “You’re not terrible company,” she says, “when you try.”

He doesn’t seem to know how to respond but then again she wasn’t really expecting him to. She can feel her face getting warm and desperately tries to fight the feeling. The guilt of betrayal is still there, but the taste of it has softened somewhat. It feels less wrong not to hate being around him, just slightly. There’s others too. Not all non Fey are bad, she’s learned that. She would miss living in a place where she never saw them again. She’s also not foolish enough to think that isolating will keep them safe. All the magic in the world won’t do that, not anymore. It’s a combination of things, but the truth is that the idea of hiding somewhere from the world, from its people, from him, now it sounds terrible. No matter how much safety it promises.

“I can look at the route,” he offers after a moment of silence from when she spoke, “I don’t know if the Paladin’s strategy has changed but I know their general way of thinking.”

“Thank you,” she says.

They both know the idea will probably be dismissed. For the first time it makes her sad, as well as frustrated. He could be useful, but she’s not sure if she trusts anyone not to push into territory he’s uncomfortable with. Or what his reaction to that would be. She isn’t sure why that should even matter. When she looks at the group that surrounds the table, she knows that there’s only one person who she can speak to who might listen to the idea. Without immediately overreacting. As the group starts to dissipate she gets up and goes over to him. 

“Can I speak to you?” She asks.

“Of course,” Arthur says, “excuse me,” he adds to everyone. The Red Spear gives him a lingering look as Pym heads away with him, “Lancelot wants to help,” she says, “he said he could help us not run into them.”

“Do you believe him?” Arthur asks.

“I—“ she looks over to see him moving towards Squirrel, “I do,” she says, looking back at Arthur, “he can help us. He kept us safe before.”

Arthur is silent for a moment. Pym knows it looks bad. Asking them to trust him is going to be a leap for anyone. Arthur’s managed to sell himself and gain the trust and back it up with his actions. Lancelot has done the opposite. Of course Arthur bore the stigma unfairly, the burdens unfairly. Lancelot has earned what people think of him and she doesn’t know if there is time for him to change that. Getting everyone to where they need to go safely is important, even if she’s not sure she’ll end up with them. If they die on the way though, if the Fey die, she doesn’t know how she can live with that.

“I know it looks bad,” she says.

“It looks—very bad,” Arthur agrees, “I can take your word at it, but the others—“

“I don’t have any sway over them,” she agrees.

“I didn’t say that,” Arthur corrects, “you do. People know you. They respect you,” he looks at Lancelot, “but they don’t understand.”

“How do we make them understand?” Pym asks. Arthur raises his eyebrows at her, “you’ve charmed your way into everyone liking and trusting you,” she points out, “even the Red Spear lets you call her nicknames. I’ve seen men gutted for less.”

Arthur flushes and Pym rolls her eyes, he knows full well how attractive he is. She’ll never forget him singing Nimue into smiles and blushes in the market, turning her friend into the girl that life had never let her be. No matter how charming he is though, no matter how charming anyone is—Lancelot is not. And even if he was, she doesn’t think anyone could be charming enough to make up for the things he’s done.

“Can we try to get him heard?” She asked.

“We can try,” Arthur agrees, “if they refuse, I can at least make sure he’s able to help if they catch us.”

“Thank you,” Pym says, even as her heart sinks. She has no love for the Paladins. But she knows that Lancelot still feels some kind of loyalty towards them. Setting him up to do that seems wrong. But it’s the best option they have, “thank you for understanding,” she adds, “and everything else.”

Arthur smiles and grasps her shoulder. If Nimue had to pick a human to be around, Pym is glad it’s this one. She goes over to where Lancelot and Squirrel are. She watches as Squirrel imitates the odd way that Lancelot has his hands held.

“It feels odd,” Squirrel complains.

“Did holding a bow feel natural?” Lancelot counters.

“No,” he admits.

“Practice and it will feel less strange,” he says. He glances back at Pym but sees the face Squirrel pulls, “do Fey Knights listen to those who know what they are talking about?”

“Yes,” Squirrel says, dropping the look and focusing on his hands.

The respect the two have for each other is an odd but welcomed thing to see. For all Lancelot has spoken of his childhood and the man he’s become, Pym wonders if he’s realized how much he’s done to keep that from happening to Squirrel.

“What are you doing?” She asks, joining them.

“Lancelot’s teaching me,” Squirrel says, “like you’re teaching him about us.”

“You’ve spent far more time around Fey Knights,” she says, “You’ll have to take it over soon.”

“I am one,” Squirrel points out.

“I remember,” Pym says.

“I’m a real Knight,” Squirrel insists, “even though I’m a boy. Sir Gawain Knighted me himself,” Pym nods, “so it’s not ‘teaching’ him.”

“What is it then?” She asks, not sure why her heart starts to pick up.

“It’s called being a Squire.”


	20. Chapter 20

The plan is insane. Lancelot cannot believe that either of them thinks this is a good idea—that Pym thinks it’s a good idea. She’s usually the most rational one, though if he considers it she has her own propensity for danger. All of them do. But it all seems to be spur of the moment, thinking on their feet in the middle of adrenaline insanity. This is the first insane plan he’s heard that has actual thought put into it. And it is more mad than any he has thought of or participated in.

“You cannot be serious.”

“I can’t decide for you,” she says, “this is up to you. I am just saying it’s a way that could work.”

“This is madness,” he says, “he’s a boy.”

“We don’t take Knighthood lightly,” she says, “those words are never said just on ceremony.”

“I know but—“

“It’s not really up to either of you,” Squirrel pipes up.

Lancelot tried to motion him away but he refused. Because despite everything that tells Lancelot to send him away and spare him this choice, Pym’s right. The plan does involve him. He should have expected the Fey to have these kinds of ceremonies and rituals. They have always taken their traditions so seriously. He can understand Gawain’s desire to protect Squirrel and give him hope, but he’s sure the Knight never thought that his actions would lead to this. Even just the suggestion feels like a betrayal. To the Fey, to the Church, there doesn’t seem to be any winning no matter how he examines it. Squirrel looks between both of them.

“I’m the Knight,” he says.

“You are still a boy,” Lancelot replies. Pym folds her arms but one of them has to say it, “you will grow into the title.”

“I’m not,” Squirrel says, “I’ve been through the same things that everyone else has. I lost my home and my family, same as any of them. I’m not a boy anymore just because you want me to be.”

The frustration is back, joined by worry. They’ve been intent on protecting him, it’s been an unspoken thing between them. But from the look on Squirrel’s face, it hasn’t been something he’s appreciated. Lancelot wishes it was as simple as a child does not know what is best for them, but Squirrel is right. He’s lost as much as any, perhaps more. He will never have years of memories or be able to grow up safely. That is something nothing will give him back. He’s shown that he’s a strong boy, that he has all the makings of a good, brave man. The kind of Knight Lancelot knows he would be sent after personally. But he still has growing up to do. Growing up that is better done as a boy in a safe haven. Not shackled to someone like him. Lancelot knows he can teach the boy to fight, teach him to be a warrior capable of protecting others. In body at least, he’s capable in spirit without any help.

“Don’t say no just because I’m young,” Squirrel says, “Gawain Knighted me because I followed him. I’m good at that.”

“I remember,” he says, “Go—“

“Why? So you two can have another one of your secret conversations?” Squirrel asks, “if it’s about him being my Squire I should be here.”

Pym opens and closes her mouth and looks away. Her face is pink. Again. Lancelot reminds himself that Squirrel would have to be blind not to notice. They’ve both sent him away so he can’t overhear. Squirrel is also a Fey and a boy. It’s not as if some snot nosed novice is telling Father that he’s been in the woods drawing the green from the plants. There’s no reason to feel guilt or embarrassment or fear, if Father appears to remind him of his Vows they are all in far more trouble.

“I’m not your Squire yet. Go,” he says nodding to the deck.

Squirrel sighs and goes off mumbling under his breath. Lancelot turns to look at Pym. They both know this is a foolish idea. No matter what she says about the words being sincere, the boy binding himself to him like this is madness. And that is before all of the other things that it will mean. He has no place among the Paladins, he knows that. If he thinks about it, he never truly did. But for the moment he has the same illusions that have always made his life bearable. That have always allowed him the lie that if he does enough, he will be one of them. He knows exactly how long he can have that lie for. If he runs his fingers against his scalp he can already feel the hair starting to come in.

“If you have a better idea I am all ears,” Pym says.

“I cannot be his Squire,” he says.

“Can’t or won’t?” She asks and it somehow comes out as a question rather than an accusation.

“I am not part of these Folk,” he says, “doing this would bind us together.”

“You’re already bound together,” Pym points out. He frowns and she sighs, “do you think he hasn’t told everyone on this ship about your adventures together?” She searches his face, “you don’t spend time with young ones do you?”

“No,” he says.

“Well he has,” Pym says, “he’s already chosen to bind himself to you.”

“He’s a boy.”

“He’s right,” he glances at her, “he’s lost everything as well. I don’t want him to have those burdens, but it’s already happened. I want him to know how to carry them,” she sighs, “besides we both know he’s going to figure out a way to follow you.”

“Bind him then,” he says.

“What part of ‘he’s going to find a way’ isn’t getting through to you?” She questions, “do you really think what I can do—what anyone can do—is any match for that?”

She has a point, unfortunately. He can grudgingly admit that. Not that he would believe it if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes. Squirrel is young but it won’t be long before he’s in that growth spurt that takes boyhood from every man. Lancelot has always been taught to push past his worry of his own damned soul, that is something to be hidden in the quiet moments before sleep. He’s rarely had anything else to worry about, much less a boy like Squirrel. He has no trouble imagining him running into battle with insufficient training and getting himself killed. Lancelot has killed enough Fey Knights in single combat to know its not as difficult as they like to tell themselves. Worse, he’s seen Squirrel charge into battle with a sword and a rock. He has no doubt that the boy would do it again.

“I’m too old to be his Squire,” he says, “I’ve already been a novice,” he adds.

“I’m not going to try and convince you to do this,” she says, “being his Squire would bind you two together. It would also give you a voice here, it’s a declaration of loyalty,” she says, “then one day maybe you would be a Knight as well.”

He thinks about Gawain sitting there, telling him he could be one of their strongest blades. That his people needed him. He remembers his own rebuttal, the Fey were not his people. Not in that moment. He finds the Knight creeping into his thoughts more and more. His certainty was so clear, his faith in his beliefs was unshakable. Like Father’s Faith. Lancelot does not know who he is supposed to believe. If it even matters, since they both met the same end. Either Gawain was right and they are in the same twilight place or Father was right and one is in heaven, one in hell. He could ask Morgana but he has a feeling the answer won’t be honest. If she answers at all. He thought becoming a Brother would mean acceptance but that never came. He’s not foolish enough to think that becoming a Knight would grant him the same. But from experience he knows it would give him something. A voice, a freedom or two, a purpose. It would also mean renouncing his vows.

He’s not ready.

That doesn’t matter.

“Would it make them listen to me about our route?”

“You can’t make them do anything,” Pym says, folding her arms, “but it might help.”

He longs for the days when he could make people listen in other ways. Lancelot wonders if the longing will ever truly go away, or if he’s forever bound to the way he lived for most of his life. He has forgotten what it is to be homesick, but the Paladins were home. It’s another war that fills his head and sends agitation through his veins. If he focuses just on what needs to be done, he knows that this is the way forward. But the voice he’s spent years learning to listen to tell him how wrong it is, how it goes again everything he knows. How it Damns him once again. The years he must Burn are uncountable at this point. He catches movement out of the corner of his eye but it’s Pym, adjusting her braid. Something shows on his face. There’s a brief flash of fear in her eyes before she rolls them like she knows the behavior is ridiculous.

“It’s not something you have to swear to now,” she says, “we can come up with another way.”

“It’s better to spend that time dealing with the Paladins,” he says.

“We can do both,” Pym points out, “I know you think what you want doesn’t matter but it does here.”

He longs for the days when he was difficult to read.

He means to search for Squirrel but his feet take him to Goliath.

The mount raises his head and looks to him for his signal. He’s a well trained steed, Lancelot made sure of that. But he remembers the days of him being a young colt, more interested in frolicking than working. He remembers training him to follow commands and not be afraid, training him to spare him the whip or the crueler ways of motivation the Paladins liked to use. He strokes his hand down Goliath’s forehead. The horse know there’s no order coming and relaxes into the touch. He’s sure he doesn’t want to hunt the Fey. He doesn’t know how Goliath feels on the subject, if he even has feelings on it. It feels ridiculous, like he’s looking for a reason to not do what needs to be done. He hasn’t felt like this much of a coward since he was a boy. The feeling is usually tucked into the back of his head, not being pushed through his veins with every beat of his heart.

“We could teach each other,” Squirrel says.

“You don’t understand what this would mean for you,” he says.

“Yes I do,” Squirrel says.

“You can’t.”

“Yes I can! I’m the same as anyone here. You can’t just treat me like a child—“

“You are a child,” he says.

“What does that matter?”

“Because—“

“Because why?”

“Because I was a child when the Paladins took my home,” Lancelot snaps, “you do not understand what blinding yourself to someone who did that will do to you.”

Squirrel clamps his mouth shut but doesn’t look at him with fear. He hasn’t in a long time. Lancelot isn’t sure if he wants the fear back or he wants him to never be afraid of him. Doubt creeps across the boy’s face but there’s no feeling of triumph. Lancelot ignores the urge to try and change that. He needs to understand. This foolish idea needs to be laid to rest before the temptation drives him mad. Squirrel looks doubtful and is silent for a moment, just long enough for Lancelot to think that he’s gotten through to the boy. It’s a false sense of security. A moment later he juts his chin up and squares his shoulders.

“I’m not you,” he says, “and you didn’t have you. I saved you too. Did you do that as a boy?”

“No.”

“Did you have a Paladin save you?”

“I thought I did,” he says.

“No really. Like you saved me,” Squirrel says. He shakes his head, “so we’re not the same. I have you,” he says, “I’d be a good Knight for you,” he ventures, “I can help you learn about being a Fey. Not like Gawain would, but I can help.”

Lancelot hates himself for not dismissing the idea. For voicing anything about his boyhood. He also knows that its not as simple as just preserving the boy’s innocence and thinking that undoes everything. Squirrel’s childhood has been taken. He only has fragments of it. Lancelot’s life has been taken as well. Soon both of their fragments of comfort will be gone. He is not anxious for that, but he is unwilling to have it sneak up on him.

“I cannot teach you to fight as Gawain would have,” he says finally.

Of all the responses, he is not expecting Squirrel to throw himself into his chest and lock his arms around his torso. If Pym can read him well, Squirrel seems able to read him as an open book. It’s the most ridiculous thing, this entire idea is preposterous. Trusting the boy, trusting this bond, this friendship. It should not exist. He’s been waiting for it to fall apart. Squirrel is a child, Lancelot refuses lose sight of that even if he also going to have to accept his childhood will never be what it should be.

Loyalty should not be this easy.

It settles over him like a caress. Like surfacing for air. It feels different, it feels a way that his loyalty to the Paladins never did. He cannot name it ‘right’, he doesn’t dare. But it feels like it settles over him in a purpose that is supposed to be his. When he hears Father’s voice echo about the Road and Salvation, he realizes that his feet are at the beginning of a different road. There’s no blood or death or shame. That lingers and surrounds it, but the Path is different. There will never be a way out, not for him, but there is a way forward.

One that starts with an embrace.


	21. Chapter 21

The shore appears on the horizon ominously.

She doesn’t know why it makes her heart beat faster. Why something in her shouts that they should sail away and just keep sailing. The other boats will be there too. Surely they won’t miss just one not making it onto shore. They have a good plan, Lancelot thinks it will help them stay away from the Paladins and get to their destination, but every step forward fills her with dread. It feels as though it is solidifying and becoming something firmer. Like the closer the shore comes the stronger the dread gets.

“You look nervous.”

Pym jumps as she faces Morgana. She thinks by now she should be used to all kinds of terrifying things sneaking up on her, but there’s something different about this. Merlin is a drunk, grieving father. Morgana is the embodiment of the anger she keeps trying to push down, the death that she continues to war against. She’s scary in a very different way. Worse, there’s that girlish thing of when your best friend gets another best friend and you wonder where on earth you fit in the mix. Pym tries to smile and fails and gives up.

“I’m sure it will be fine.”

“You’re sure a lot will be fine,” Morgana says. The guilt churns fresh in her stomach, “you shouldn’t trust him.”

It’s not the first time Pym has been told she shouldn’t trust someone. It’s not even the first time she’s been told it by someone much more powerful and much more knowledgeable. But it is the first time that their words have connected to her own guilt regarding the subject. Morgana has seen him do things that Pym knows should make her not trust him. Even as he constantly proves himself worthy of some level of trust, she only has to close her eyes before she thinks about her dead parents and friends and Nimue, who he hunted down like an animal. She thinks about everyone’s loved ones, people he killed or led the Paladins to. Sometimes when she thinks about it she feels like she’s fresh to the boat and about to lose her stomach.

“He’s done terrible things,” she says, “he was a monster story even to the Church, something we would whisper about at night. He would come to us if we didn’t say our prayers right,” she speak steadily but Pym can hear the anger, “it had nothing to do with him being a Fey,” Pym feels her mouth go dry, “don’t push him to be one of you like this, he knows too much already,” she says, “he learned it from burning you all alive. It’s not your fault, people would say anything to make the flames stop.”

Pym bites into her cheek as she thinks of what Lancelot can actually do. There’s no screaming or begging, the best Pym can tell there isn’t any time. There’s just a flash of green and then you’re gone. Well, that or she gets someone to stab him and direct the energy elsewhere. Morgana didn’t see though. No-one saw. Her brother just did the only thing he could to spare Pym more pain, without question or hesitation. Because Arthur is a good man. Lancelot could be, maybe. But the sins of his past are never going to be undone. No-one’s sins ever are, but even she can see the difference between stealing and willingly participating in genocide. She means to say that to Morgana’s insistent face. Truly she does.

“He has a name,” is what comes out instead. It surprises even Morgana and Pym wonders how, after everything, she’s still blurting out the worst thing at the worst time, “I’m sorry, it’s just—not that simple anymore,” she says.

“It is to the dead,” Morgana says.

Pym doesn’t know if she’s speaking metaphorically or if she’s actually spoken to them. It doesn’t matter. Her stomach is by her ankles anyway. All Fey are brothers, even his religion even preaches how killing your brother is a sin. Pym knows that she’s been one of the people trying to help him. But the guilt hasn’t ever truly left. It’s horrifying to think somehow the three of them have wound up carrying their own weights of guilt. Squirrel doesn’t deserve his, especially not about Nimue. Lancelot has his and has decided to face it. Pym though, Pym feels as though she’s still learning how to hold hers. She could set it down and walk away. She would be lying if she said there wasn’t the temptation to do that. If in times like this, the temptation wasn’t overwhelmingly strong. But if she forces herself to be quiet, she feels her fingers tighten on the proverbial stone. She’s not a Knight, she’s not some great hero, but she can lift a bucket. She can carry the guilt.

“Lancelot’s a Squire,” she says, “he’s declared loyalty—“

“He declared loyalty to the Church a long time ago,” Morgana cuts in, “switching sides again just makes him a traitor twice over.”

Pym remembers him saying the same thing. But she doesn’t dare voice that to Morgana. She can see echoes of the same hatred on both of them, but it seems to have burrowed far deeper in Lancelot. It’s a part of him in a way that it doesn’t seem to be for Morgana. She exists separate from it, she exists in spite of it. It is a part of Lancelot. Who he becomes will be tangled up with that. She’s not a fool, but the darkness in others has never scared her away. But Nimue was born with that, Lancelot had chosen it. Under duress, under circumstance she cannot blame him for, but he did choose it. And it is directed at her and what she is, in a way that Nimue’s never was.

“It’s not that simple,” she says finally.

“I promise it is,” Morgana replies, “not everyone is going to remind him of who he was. And Squirrel isn’t going to remind him for too much longer.”

“Squirrel isn’t the only one he’s saved,” she says. Morgana smirks and she knows exactly what she’s thinking, “it’s not that simple,” she repeats.

“Don’t make the same mistake as the boy,” Morgana says, “people who believe like him, like Iris, that kind of belief doesn’t go away. He’s only here because Father Carden isn’t around to tell him otherwise. But that doesn’t mean he’s thrown away the thing that he’s been doing his entire life.”

She leaves Pym breathless in a terrible way. It’s like having all your darkest thoughts and doubts laid out before you. Maybe that is the difference. She knew Nimue before, when they were young. When the world still had hope and innocence in it. Or maybe it’s just that Nimue’s darkness didn’t burn down her village. Though there are plenty who were expecting it to.

“Morgana,” Arthur appears like his sister’s shadow. Maybe he is now. Pym knows she’s not the only one trying to understand a darkness that she isn’t sure she can. The ship rocks below her feet and Morgana gives a look of disgust that has nothing to do with Lancelot, “I hid the liquor—“

“He’s an immortal grief stricken wizard. I told you to throw it overboard,” she says, gathering up here skirts and stalking off.

Arthur approaches her slower, offering a kind smile Pym doesn’t think she deserves. Arthur seems to go out of his way to help everyone, the Fey and the Raiders. It’s frustrating how some people can be who they say they are and others can wind up completely different. She’s used to it in the small, insular world she was a part of. Here the stakes are so much higher. How anyone trusts anyone in this world is a complete mystery to her.

“She wasn’t speaking of your dead relatives was she?”

“No,” Pym says, “why, can she do that?”

Arthur shrugs.

“I’m not entirely sure what she can and can’t do—“ he says, “I’m not sure anyone is. Even Merlin himself.”

Pym isn’t sure if she wants to speak to her dead relatives or even what she would ask them. Or if she wants to give them an opportunity to judge her. She wishes there was one thing she was sure about, instead of feeling like she’s been caught in the tides and is being pulled out to the unknown. She’s only sure that she’s unsure.

“Are you alright?” Arthur asks, “I know that’s a stupid question, but it felt like someone needs to ask.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly, “you just—you’ve done a lot—“

“Is this about Lancelot?” She asks.

“Not entirely,” he says. She raises her eyebrows, “that’s a big part of it,” she sighs, “you’re the only adult Fey who isn’t scared of him,” he says, “given everything—“

“Why aren’t you scared of him?” She counters, “you’ve been more helpful than any other man here,” she points out, “even though he’s part of something you hate and he’s killed people you love.”

Arthur nods, no shame in his gaze. The Red Spear has also been helpful, but she’s also locked him up. Arthur’s given him his horse, allowed him to have weapons. All things that he probably shouldn’t. He definitely shouldn’t. But Pym’s grateful that he has. So grateful that she’s never really examined the reasoning behind it. Arthur looks old suddenly. Or older than she’s seen him look, like a great weariness has settled over him. Like he’s got his own rocks of guilt to carry.

“I know what it’s like to not have chances because of your past,” he says, “and what it can be to have one. Even the smallest one,” he explains, “I let him have a horse and he saved both of you. Let him keep his shackles off and he’s got it so Squirrel is the only boy here who seems capable of laughing. If I give him a chance at helping get you where you all need to go, he may save everyone.”

“So he’s earned a chance,” Pym says. Arthur sighs and nods, “do you feel like giving him one is a betrayal of the people who died?” She asks quietly.

Arthur is silent for a moment.

“When my father died, he gave me his debts,” he says, “I spent my childhood thinking that I was nothing more than the sum I owed,” he looks out at the water, “I don’t think the dead can be betrayed,” he says, “I’ve only seen how they can betray the living,” he looks back at her, “he died when I was much younger,” he says, “everyone would understand if you didn’t forgive him.”

“That’s the problem,” she sighs, “it’s not that simple, but I think I’m starting to?” She rubs at her temples, “and then I just feel guilty because what does that make me?”

“A better person than most,” Arthur says.

“I was going to say traitor,” Pym admits, “or a bad Fey.”

“I don’t think it’s that simple,” Arthur tells her, “but for what it’s worth, I don’t think forgiving someone makes you a bad Fey or a traitor.”

She doesn’t know if she should believe him, but for the moment she lets herself listen. He’s been right about a lot of things. Maybe he’s right about this. At the very least it helps to hear that she’s not losing her mind.

“You’re a good man, has anyone told you that?” She asks.

“It seems they can’t stop,” he says, “Gwen—“ he cuts himself off, his eyes going wide, “forget I said that.”

“Said what—“ she glances over her shoulder at the people milling about, “no,” she gasps, “she told you her name?” She looks between them, “her name’s Gwen?”

The name’s never said on the ship, so it seems to echo. People’s conversation falters. Pym watches as The Red Spear, Gwen, rolls her eyes and gets to her feet. She gives Arthur a look of disgust that’s still somehow oddly softer than the looks that Pym’s seen her give people. But it hardens when she looks at Pym.

“It’s Guinevere,” she says, “and we don’t say it on this ship.”

“I’ve noticed,” Pym gets out, wondering how someone can choose not to use such a beautiful name.

“Good. Forget you heard it,” Guinevere orders, “I don’t care if I’m bleeding out on your table when we get back, you didn’t hear that name.”

“When we get back?” Pym repeats.

Guinevere rolls her eyes.

“We’ll get your people to where they’re going. Then if you want back on my ship you have a place here. You’ve managed to keep us alive so far.”

Pym doesn’t know why she immediately feels better. Maybe it’s just because the ship feels more like home than any of the other places she’s been of late. Which is odd to think about. But the idea of being here pulling arrows from Raider’s backsides has more appeal than being in an isolated island that Lancelot can’t even visit. Pym feels color warm up her cheeks at the gruff praise. Her blush makes Guinevere’s lip curl and she rounds on Arthur.

“You, on the other hand—“  
  
“I’m sorry it just slipped out—“

“I don’t want to hear your excuses. You best hope my healer gets ready instead of running off for one of her chit chats with the monk.”

“I think he’s a Squire now.”

“I think you’re about to be in trouble.”

They back away or Arthur does with Guinevere advancing on him. The sound of her name makes conversation falter but her backing him up with a finger in his chest and murder in her eyes makes it pick right up again. Apparently that is nothing new. She shakes her head and wonders momentarily if she was serious about hurting Arthur but decides that she wasn’t. Then she remembers the rest of what she said.

Apparently the entire ship is aware of their conversations.

There are worse things to be aware of but that doesn’t exactly keep her face from growing hot at the realization. And hotter still when she realizes that she’s looking around for him to do exactly that. There are plenty of other people on the ship with shared experience, other Fey who she can at least try to fit in with. But he’s the one she wants to talk to. It occurs to her suddenly that she might be edging towards an entirely different kind of trouble. 

But the thought is so utterly preposterous she shoves it out of her mind without a second thought, lets the breeze cool her face for a moment and then goes to look for her friends. 


	22. Chapter 22

It feels nauseating to go back on land.

Lancelot vaguely remembers that from the last time he went from ship to land. They disembark efficiently, but it’s not terribly quick. The horses are nervous. He takes the other mount. Pym leads Goliath. He follows her easily. The mount he leads takes a little more convincing, but it comes easier than some of them. He supposes that the steed has been through more than most of them. The night in the woods when he found the horse after making the Fire feels like a lifetime ago. If he thinks about, in a way it was. But the horse came then and it comes now. Easier this time.

He’s grateful because nothing else is going to be easy for the foreseeable future.

The other ships are there and word has not exactly spread like he would expect. There’s a lot of whispers and several shrieks when someone spots him. He’s used to infamy, he expected nothing less. But he’s got nothing to hide himself in the way he’s accustom to doing. He can just keep moving and try to keep himself as neutral as possible. From the horror that’s reflected back to him, it doesn’t help. He doubts anything would. The embodiment of death, a wizard the Fey Folk already hate and dozens of Raiders and Men wait for them, but all eyes keep dragging towards him. It’s fair, he knows that, but the idea of being the center of their view is unfathomable. The idea crosses his head that he could walk away from all of this and into the woods, or back onto the ship with the few that are staying behind. Instead he walks over to Goliath and Pym.

“I am not looking forward to riding,” she remarks, turning to him. He ducks his head in acknowledgement. She looks over his shoulder and rolls her eyes, “they’ll get used to your presence soon,” she says.

“Is that going to matter?” He asks before he can stop himself.

“I don’t know,” she says. How could she? She hesitates, “I’m used to seeing you,” she offers, “give it a few days?”

“Pym can you do that thing?” Squirrel asks, dragging over a Fey boy. One of the Snake Clan. He shoves away the whirl of information his mind brings up on weaknesses. Despite looking queasy the boy still shies back at the sight of him. He turns to go but Pym grabs his wrist.

“Here, there’s nothing to be afraid of,” she says, “see it looks like this.”

She shifts her hands and finds those points. After a moment the nausea goes away completely, though it was bearable before. He realizes that she probably knows the boy isn’t afraid of the technique, or not as afraid of the technique, as he is of him. But using him like this shows the boy that there isn’t anything to be afraid of for either. She drops her hands and smiles at him. The boy takes care to keep Squirrel between them and go the longest way to Pym, but he makes it over there. Pym crouches down and presses the points for him. The boy makes a noise but holds still and the nausea goes away,

“Thank you,” he says.

“You’re welcome,” she says. The boy’s eyes drag over to him, “that’s Lancelot,” she says.

Fear is naked on the boy’s face but it seems to war with what he’s been taught about how they work. He hesitates for another moment before looking down at the ground and mumbles something that might be his name. His courage wavers for a moment and then he takes off back to his Folk. It’s longer than Lancelot would have expected him to last. He watches him go. There are so many Fey here, but he can sort their scents. Some of them are familiar. He expected as much, it was inevitable. Many of them blend together, but a few are more distinct. This one of the more distinct ones.

He recognizes the violet.

Lancelot is used to the Fey shying away from him. Especially those who have lost everything. He’s not used to them glaring at him, with their arms folded and their faces full of disgust. He remembers cutting this Fey down, right before he took Gawain. She had been alive, though his only objective had been to get to the Knight. He had been single minded in that. He’s surprised she hasn’t drawn her sword, but looking at her he gets the impression that she doesn’t act blindly. Pym moves out of the corner of his eye but he doesn’t take his focus off the Fey in front of him.

“Were you already doubting them when you cut me down?” She asks, “or are you planning on selling us out?”

“Kaze—“ the Fey holds up a hand to Pym. He sees Squirrel move and stops him, though that takes a hand on his shoulder. Her eyes narrow, “he’s one of us now.”

  
“Why should that matter now?” She questions, her gaze moving up and down his form.

“Because,” Pym ducks under her arm, “we aren’t the Paladins,” Kaze’s eyes drag from his to her, “we’re better than that.”

Her eyes flick back to him, still thoroughly unimpressed, and then back to Pym. There’s more respect in them when she looks at her. But it’s not the respect one warrior shows another. It’s a different kind.

“How has he proven his loyalty?”

“Well he saved our lives,” she says, “and Squirrel made him his Squire.”

Kaze looks at her for a long moment and then snorts. The laughter stings more than most of the things he’s been through recently. Though he reminds himself that pride is a sin. He’s spent a lifetime being laughed at and mocked by his Brothers, he knew that being among the Fey wouldn’t be different. Suffering was supposed to cleanse the soul. He knows the suffering that waits him in Hell will be far greater. But this chafes, even though he has to remind himself that he cut her down not too long ago. Probably did more terrible things to her people as well. He deserves worse than to have a warrior laugh at him. Kaze looks up at Pym and the laughter vanishes.

“You’re serious?”

“Gawain Knighted me,” Squirrel says, “Lancelot saved me so I took him as my Squire to teach him the ways of the Fey.”

“Very serious,” Pym adds.

Kaze gives him a long, hard look and bares her teeth.

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” she says, “Sir,” she adds to Squirrel.

She moves off and doesn’t look back but Lancelot has no doubt that he’s going to be watched. No matter what anyone says. He’s going to have to be careful. He touches Pym’s shoulder and steps away from her, freeing his spare cloak from Goliath’s saddle bags. The heavy hood is cumbersome but putting it on feels better. Neither Pym nor Squirrel remark on it and he ignores the look they trade.

“You should go back on Goliath,” Pym says.

He shakes his head.

“The other horse still needs work,” he says, fastening the bag back and tying down her healers bag.

“Are you alright?” She asks quietly.

“I’m fine,” he says, “I’ve done worse to them,” he points out, “you cannot always put yourself in front of me.”

“I’m not,” she protests.

  
He raises his eyebrows and she sighs, blushing like she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t. She seems to always be going out of her way to try and make sure he’s got a chance to prove himself. Not force him to do it, but give him the chance to do it himself. He would say that is how the Fey are, but every encounter he has shows him how not true that is. They try but she seems to grip her code tighter than most. Follow it better than most. In a way that he would never voice, she reminds him of the Paladins he would worship as a boy. Father called in blasphemy, but he remembers being moved by their faith, even as he tried to find his own.

“They just don’t know you yet,” she says, “I know how they can be with those they don’t understand.”

He almost retorts that there’s not much to understand past the fact that he burned down their villages and slaughtered their families. But Pym understands that. Sadness crosses her face and he gets the impression that she’s not just talking about him.

“You’re used to defending Nimue against them,” he says.

“Not that it made a difference,” she says, “I can—“ his arm goes out and presses against the saddle, blocking her exit. She glances back at him but the fear is instantaneously replaced by annoyance, “you know Kaze is looking for a reason to stab you,” she points out, turning around to face him.

“I don’t want you to get hurt or ostracized because of me,” he says.

She stares up at him wide eyed and the blush doesn’t go away quickly. She doesn’t seem afraid but her pupils dilate and then shrink back. Of all the scents of the Fey, hers has become the most familiar. She’s the closest to his nose height wise. This close he barely needs to inhale before he smells it. He’s not used to it being so sharp without her using her magic, but no vines have appeared on her veins. He can only see her pulse flutter in her neck. She doesn’t retort for a moment, she just looks up at him. Then she seems to come to herself and she shakes her head.

“Don’t be silly,” she says and he half thinks she’s talking to herself until she focuses on him, “I never cared about any of that back then, I certainly don’t care about it now.”

She’s said as much before but the idea of her putting herself between him and everyone who thinks poorly of him makes a knot form in his stomach. It’s some combination of guilt and dread. He know he doesn’t deserve either of their kindness. But there’s something about the occasional misgivings he sees on Pym’s face that he understands. He feels it as well.

“Just because I’m a Fey—“

“It’s not just because you’re a Fey,” she says, “though that’d be reason enough.”

“Then what else?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet,” she says.

The non-answer makes him frown which seems to make her smile. It’s odd how being teased by one person can make him feel as though he’s being flogged in his soul and another can make him feel like it’s maybe an accomplishment to put a smile on another’s face. The humiliation, at least, is familiar. He doesn’t know what the other thing is. He looks over and sees that the others are mostly off the ships. It will be time to move out. He wants to ask more questions but he knows better than to risk anyone’s safety. So instead he drops his hand from Goliath’s flank and leans down. By now it’s almost familiar to cup his hands so she can put her boot in them. She braces her other hand against his shoulder and he boosts her up onto Goliath.

“I’m riding with you,” Squirrel says.

“No you’re not,” he replies. Squirrel looks at him, “I’m making sure everyone is off the beach. You are going with the others.”

“Wait, what?”

He looks up at Pym. She seems surprised and troubled by what he’s saying. It’s not his favorite part of this either. But the riders all have their places and he knows how to cover their tracks. It makes the most sense. He doesn’t say any of that as Pym looks at him. He turns to Squirrel who folds his arms.

“I can help you,” he says, “I’m—“

“Right now you need to stay with Pym,” he cuts in, “a Knight protects others.”

He looks up at her. Thankfully, they both seem to be thinking the same thing as Squirrel opens his mouth. Lancelot knows his abilities are a prize. But Squirrel’s are very valuable, especially now. He would say that the Fey can be trusted, but none of them seem to know. He can see how it would make Squirrel a target. An orphan with powers like that. The longer they can keep it quiet, keep all of their powers quiet, the better things will be.

“Come on,” she says.

“But—“

“He’ll meet us at the camp,” Pym assures Squirrel. He helps settle the boy up on Goliath. He reminds himself that this makes sense. This is the best way he can help, “Lancelot.”

He turns around as something solid and metal drops into his hand. It’s an amulet of some kind. He vaguely recognizes the black cord from around Pym’s neck. He looks at her questioningly.

“It’s for luck,” she says, “and protection,” she tightens the reins, “we’ll see you tonight.”

He stands on the beach and watches them start to file out. It’s only a few hours, but it occurs to him that it’s the first time he’s been without the pair of them or Goliath. He regrets agreeing to the plan, though he knows its necessary. He’s not expecting them to look as concerned as they fall in line. Knowing they are among their kind is the most important thing. Trusting Arthur and his comrades to keep them safe is considerably harder. He tightens his fingers around the amulet. Next to him the horse nudges his shoulder.

“You’re going to need a name,” he tells it, slipping the cord over his head so he can keep his hands free, “let’s get to work.”


	23. Chapter 23

She’s anxious until she sees him again and mad at herself the entire time for the emotion.

Pym thinks, by now and with the current company she keeps, that she should be accustom to people running off to do stupid and brave things. That she should know most of the time they come back just fine. More or less. Doff was—an outlier. But seeing him on that stretcher plays in the back of her mind the entire time. She hates the juxtaposition. Dof was a good man. A kind man. Someone who went out of their way to help others in his own gruff ways. Pym understands that. He was charming and she understands that too. Even if Lancelot wasn’t the one to kill him, the Paladins were. Logically she knows that she should not be worried about someone like him off on his own in the woods. She shouldn’t be worried about him at all.

And yet she is.

She wonders if this was how Dof felt when he decided to save her on the docks. She doesn’t think she was as much trouble as Lancelot, but only slightly. The Red Spear’s ship really did need a healer. A much better healer than her. She thinks about how it could have ended with her drowning, which is only slightly better than the thought of her being forced to marry. Or maybe it’s worse. She doesn’t know, she just knows that she keeps glancing in the trees and trying not to choke on her panic that every rustle is going to be a Trinity Guard or a Paladin or something else throwing Lancelot’s dead body onto the ground at their feet. She’s known him for only a little while but she’s had more nightmares about him than most in her life. She has faith in the amulet, but the notion that she lent it to him is just—it still makes her face feel hot.

“What’s wrong with you?” Squirrel asks.

“Nothing,” she says.

“You look worried,” he cocks his head, “are you worried about Lancelot?”

“He’s fine,” she dismisses.

“So why do you look worried?” She says nothing. Squirrel leans forward, “are you mad?”

“No!” She says, “I’m fine, everything is fine,” she gets up, “I’m going to check on Goliath.”

“He’s also fine!”

Pym ignores that and walks off to check on him. She’s being ridiculous, she tells herself. She always cared about others, in the way that you were supposed to. But becoming a healer has made he so much more aware of their hurts. Not being able to help them feels almost like an insult. There is so much pain in those around her. So many who will never get the ones they love back. It seems foolish to be concerned. Just because of Dof and Nimue and Gawain who all rode off and never came back in one way or another. Or haven’t come back. Squirrel did. She doesn’t know why Goliath should make her feel better. Maybe because the horse is one of the only ones who understands the worry. Maybe he even understands the frustration and anger.

If horses get angry.

Pym isn’t a rider, not really. There was never much of a reason for her to ride. Her skin is still tender in patches from her first time in the saddle. She’s just grateful Goliath is well trained. She just has to hold on and the horse seems to know what to do. Which is wonderful because steering a horse is very firmly in the “I don’t know how to do this” column in the list she’s kept in her head. That column is long. But it doesn’t seem to have stopped her. Goliath raises his head and walks over as she approaches.

“When we get to where we’re going, I’m sure there will be treats for you,” she tells him, “if you like those.”

“He likes apples,” Lancelot says, leading the other horse into the field.

Pym doesn’t know how he manages to be so quiet, or rather how he’s managed to get the horse to be so quiet. When he drops the reins the horse immediately goes over to Goliath and starts to graze, like it knows that now is the time to relax but orders might be coming. Pym’s seen enough horses to know that there are very few as well trained. She’s actually only ever seen one. She wonders if Gawain knew Lancelot shared his talent. She glances back at him, looking for any injuries but he seems fine as he pushes back his hood. She feels her emotions go from relief to annoyance. Annoyance that only increases when Lancelot looks at her with confusion.

“Are you alright?”

“What makes you think I’m not?” She asks, turning to the horses, “does it change my scent?”

“Somewhat,” he admits.

Embarrassment and a different kind of horror flood her veins. She doesn’t know if he can smell that too. She’s met Fey with powerful gifts, but never one who used their so insidiously. He looks at her carefully as she folds her arms together. She knows logically that won’t help the situation, but it doesn’t stop her. It’s either the smell or her blatant discomfort but he seems to understand some line has been crossed. She sees the frustration as his body tenses.

“You should have said you were staying behind,” she says.

“What?” His confusion is palpable as his brows draw together, “why?”

“Because you tell your people what you’re doing so they don’t think you’re going to get yourself hurt,” she says, “or charge off into some stupid battle with no one to watch your back.”

“We discussed this, it made the most sense,” he says.

“Squirrel and I weren’t part of the discussion.”

“Squirrel would want to come with me,” he says, “you’re not a fighter.”

There’s nothing malicious about the way he says it, his voice doesn’t change but the reminder stings like a blow. She’s not a fighter, she’s never been a fighter. Not like that. She remembers the weight of the axe in her hands, how the amulet around his neck was the only thing that kept her alive. That and passing out. Waking up to all the new people she had come to like dead or dying or bloody. Guinevere had said Fey were bad luck but Pym hadn’t believed her until that moment. She turns away before he can see the tears that threaten her. She’s not a fighter, if she was maybe she wouldn’t be in this confusing storm of emotions, she wouldn’t still be here when all her friends kept vanishing or dying. She wouldn’t be standing around being worried and smarting from her newness in the saddle.

“I meant with a weapon—“

“It wasn’t anything I ever needed to learn,” she says, “I thought I was going to stay in my village. Then I was on that ship and they needed a healer. I couldn’t learn instantly.”

“I know.”

“But I could fake being a healer,” she adds.

The explanation she’s given to herself is even more hollow when spoken aloud. It doesn’t make her feel stronger to know it was her best chance. She had never been a good liar, somehow the one lie that stuck changed her entire life. He’s right though, she’s not a fighter and at the end of the day what strength she’s managed to gather isn’t enough to do anything properly. Not save her friends, not sort her emotions, not even know what’s going to happen with a plan she had practically concocted. She knows she’s being ridiculous and she rubs under her eyes. Lancelot barely seems to know what to do off the battlefield and the thought of crying in front of him is humiliating even without that.

“You’re right I’m not a fighter I’m just a healer, this isn’t—“

He really is unnervingly quiet.

He’s in front of her when she turns, just as close as he was on the beach. For the life of her she can’t remember if he’s always stood so close and she’s just newly aware aware of it or if he doesn’t realize what he’s doing. He seems hyper aware of his surroundings in the purpose of a fight or of tracking. But not when there isn’t a threat. That seems new to him. He towers over her no matter where they stand in relation to one another but when he’s this close she has tilt her head to look into his eyes. The sun is lower in the sky and it seems to reflect off the marks on his cheeks.

“I didn’t know I was supposed to tell you,” he says.

“You weren’t,” she points out, “I’m not a fighter.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, “you’re not a fighter with a weapon though you could be. You’re a different kind of fighter,” he explains, “I’ll tell you next time.”

“You weren’t supposed to,” she repeats.

“I don’t care what others say I’m supposed to do,” he says, “you’ve kept the only secret that matters.”

Her mind flashes to the Fire. To the scar on his side she was fully prepared to deal him herself. Though she thinks he has more secrets that matter than he realizes, she knows that is the most important one. It’s the one that can be used against him more than any other. Plenty of Folk can undo knots. Making legendary fire is something else. Hiding them is as well. She’s a terrible liar, how she’s become the one keeping so many world altering secrets is beyond her. She makes knots. That’s nothing special.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “I shouldn’t care about something so stupid. It barely matters in the scheme of everything.”

“I don’t want to upset you,” he says.

“You not telling me something isn’t what’s upsetting me,” she says. He looks confused again and she doesn’t blame him. Confused seems to be the only thing that she understands feeling these days.

“But you said—“ he trails off, frustration on his features, “you said it was that.”

“I know what I said,” she says, “I’m upset because it’s ridiculous to be worried about you, you can take care of yourself,” she says, “and its ridiculous because I am worried and at the same time I know I shouldn’t be worried about someone whose done the things you have.”

She claps her hand over her mouth. She expects him to turn away and shut down. It’s a horrible thing to say. She doesn’t expect him to relax slightly. Like they’ve gotten onto some kind of thing he understands rather than being tackled into the unfathomable depths she’s pitched them into. It was easier to say those kind of things when she didn’t look at him. But there isn’t any hurt or surprise or frustration in his gaze. Not like she expects.

“You feel guilty for caring.”

He says it so simply, like it’s a fact and nothing more. The sky is blue, water is cold, Guinevere hates her superstitions being challenged, Goliath is a good horse. He doesn’t say it like it’s nearly as embarrassing and confusing and torturous as she feels about it. He says it like he understands. Which arguably makes it worse and better at the same time.

“I watched the paladins burn down my village,” he says, “I never forgot it. But I cared for them. I fought for them,.”

“You were a boy,” She says.

“I grew up,” he points out.

“Did you ever feel guilty about what you did to the Fey?”

He’s quiet for a moment, thinking about his answer. She wonders how it can be anything but a yes or no.

“I told myself it was weakness,” he says, “that it was a test from God,” he looks away, “I only recognized the feeling from when I saved myself from being burned.”

She knows how the puzzle pieces fit together after they’ve spoken about what happened to him. It doesn’t change what he’s done. It doesn’t save the people who died by his hand. But he’s spoken about it almost clinically. He’s spent so long hiding all his emotions, he doesn’t seem to know how to choose which to show and which to hide. It’s the first time she’s heard him speak of his guilt about what happened. Recognize it so plainly.

“I feel guilty for escaping,” she admits finally, “I tried to go back for them but I couldn’t without the Paladins seeing me.”

She knows she’s alive because she ran instead of anything else. The little head shake the ones she could see gave her doesn’t change the fact that she ran instead of staying to fight and die. She ran and hid and ran again. She knew that she would carry the guilt of surviving. She just didn’t know that she would find another who understood. She was just lucky enough to find the Raiders, to be older when it happened. Lancelot doesn’t tell her that she was right to run or escape. He seems to know that isn’t what she needs or wants to hear.

“Does it ever go away? The guilt?”

“I don’t know,” he says.

“I wish you did,” she remarks.

A bittersweet smile twists his lips. It’s the first time she’s seen him smile. She’s surprised at how much younger it makes him look. She’s looked at his face enough, but she never appreciated that the marks on the outer corner of his eyes are in line with his lips. When he smiles, even bitterly, they shift as his muscles move. She’s not expecting Lancelot to have dimples that push his marks up.

“As do I,” he says.

They both fall silent. She expects it to be a silence that has to be filled, but it doesn’t. It can just be. That’s not the kind of silence that she’s used to having. She’s not expecting to feel comfortable with it happening around him.

“Thank you for not calling me insane,” she says.

“Why would I do that?”

“Because I just yelled at you?”

“You’ve done that before,” he says, “I don’t think that makes you insane.”

She nods.

“You should go say hi to Squirrel,” she says, “I’ll be back in a minute.”

He gives her a long look but nods finally, seeming to sense she needs a moment to herself. He heads back to the others, glancing behind him. Overall Pym finds she feels better, even just a little bit. She still feels embarrassed, but better. She takes a few deep breaths and starts to feel a little more capable.

That’s when Goliath bites her and drags her down.

The arrow hits the tree a moment later.

Pym lands on the grass and looks up at Goliath who lets out a horrible, loud sound. He sidesteps and she has no choice but to roll into a ball and cover her head to make sure his hooves don’t touch her. There’s more arrows and something hot and wet hits her face. One of them has been hit.

“Go!” She yells to the horse, having no idea if he’ll follow the command.

She has no time to scramble to her feet or even to look around as a pair of arms locks around her waist and she finds herself hauled over a black leather clad shoulder. Her last clear thought is to wonder how she's being kidnapped again.

Then someone throws a bag over her face, she smells herbs and consciousness slips away.


	24. Chapter 24

It’s the scream of the Fey girl and the panic musk her scent takes that tells him something has gone wrong.

It hasn’t been long.

He knows that, though it’s felt very long. How long it is supposed to take people to pull themselves together is a mystery to him. He’s been half listening to Squirrel as he tries to figure it out. The scream though, the scream tells him what a fool he was to leave her out there alone. Even if he knows she’s more capable than most. His mind immediately jumps to the Paladins, to his own failure if they found them. To the fact that she’s escaped once, if they recognize that they will make sure she doesn’t do it again. He moves automatically, but before he can run, the horses break through the camp.

There’s panic and blood on them as they struggle. Some are injured. Some are just covered. Automatically he shoves Squirrel behind him and grabs the young boy he sees out of the corner of his eye. The boy shrieks and he thinks he may have been too late before realizing that being grabbed by the Weeping Monk is frightening enough. But better to be alive and frightened than trampled.

“Keep him close!” He orders Squirrel, putting the boy near him, “Stay with me.”

He has to trust Squirrel to follow his orders. There’s so much chaos, it’s difficult to pick out individual horses. He needs Goliath here. He has none of his usual methods of signaling him in a subtle way. He can only put his fingers into his mouth and let out a sharp note. It’s not Goliath who appears but the other horse. The blonde, nameless mount tries to stop in time and fails, winding up nearly tipping over before lurching upwards. Lancelot just manages to grab the reins and coax the horse down. It tosses its head, spit flying, but with a little coaxing it gets its hooves under itself. It stops and then is quieter. It’s impressive, considering how little time he’s spent training the horse. But he’s grateful for the quick study.

Goliath isn’t there.

Suddenly there’s storm clouds in the sky and a great crack of lightening as Merlin makes his presence known. Lancelot feels the horse tense but it doesn’t balk like the others. The lightening is terrifying but it’s not as terrifying as what he can do. The boy Squirrel has with him is small, smaller even than Squirrel. Lancelot needs to get to the clearing but he cannot leave them here.

“Come here,” he orders, hefting Squirrel on first. The Fey boy whimpers in fear, “look at me,” the boy looks at him, “you remember me, I don’t harm the children who do as I say. Now come here.”

The boy goes pale but his ploy works and he comes closer, letting Lancelot haul him up onto the saddle. Lancelot mounts behind them and urges the horse forward and away from the chaos. It’s not far, the horse barely has time to put on any speed. He sees Goliath’s massive form tossing back and forth. He hands the reins to Squirrel, trusting the horse to be steady.

“Goliath,” he says the horse’s name aloud, “Goliath, be still.”

The command works even though it shouldn’t and Goliath freezes, turning his head blindly to the sound. Lancelot feels his stomach drop. One of Goliath’s eyes is covered in sap, sealing it shut. The other is stuck through with an arrow. Lancelot forced himself to asses the rest of the horse, but everything else looks fine. Or the rest of the blood doesn’t look like his. He puts his hand on Goliath’s nose and the horse stills further, though he whinnies his discomfort and fear. Lancelot tastes bile in the back of his throat. Goliath has never been just a thing to him, much as he has spent time wishing and pretending he was. He looks back at Squirrel who looks from the arrow to the boy. He digs his heels into the horse and walks him away, putting them behind a tree and out of view.

“I need you to be still,” he tells Goliath, “as still as possible.”

He puts the reins under his foot. Goliath huffs. Lancelot knows he has no business doing this, that it could easily result in something terrible. But if he doesn’t, Goliath suffers more. It’s easier this time with the sickening feeling, it’s not accompanied by the same powerlessness. He feels the change in his own energy but it’s different than the ways he’s accustom to conjuring the fire. He grips the arrow as lightly as possible. It only takes a moment for it to be ash. Goliath panics, how could he not? Lancelot pulls his hands away quickly but the horse’s eye is beyond repair. The flames in his hand are still there, with nowhere to redirect the energy. He doesn’t think as he puts his hand as close to Goliath’s wound as he dares. There’s a horrible, horrible smell of burned flesh as the wound is sealed shut. Lancelot looks around as the fire remains on his hands, like blood that he will never wash off. There’s nowhere safe for it to go, the energy has to go somewhere. Has to be used for something. Something not obvious, something—

The fire dampens.

Everything becomes dulled again and the scent of the Fey recedes. Not entirely, but it’s as though a scream has become a whisper. He knows Squirrel is there, his gift is strong but it’s as unpracticed as his. Still the boy’s interruption lets him focus enough to let the energy dissipate. It blows away. Squirrel pulls his own power back and the world sharpens again. He steps back and Lancelot immediately goes for Goliath.

“You’re alright,” he says to the horse. Goliath tosses his head, “you’re alright,” he repeats as Goliath pushes into his chest. Lancelot rubs his ears, “thank you,” he says to Squirrel.

“Is he going to be alright?”

“He’ll be fine,” he says, “come on.”

He picks up the reins and leads Goliath to where the other horse is. The younger boy on it has his face buried in his hands and is counting under his breath. It’s a smart idea. Lancelot looks at the field. There’s far more arrows. He can see at least two horses that are dead. His fingers tighten on Goliath’s reins. Lancelot closes his eyes and breathes in. He can recall Pym’s scent from memory. He smells it on the saddle, on the amulet around his neck. It’s the bright, pure scent that he focuses on immediately. But when he turns in that direction, he feels Goliath’s breath on him. Gently he pulls back Goliath’s lips. There’s red on his teeth. He reaches into his mouth and pulls out a scrap of fabric. It’s wet and covered with the scent of Goliath’s mouth, but his abilities pick out Pym’s scent.

“Stay here,” he orders both of them, moving into the meadow.

The scent isn’t changing as he moves, she’s not here. His heart relaxes and then tightens. He can smell her blood and it’s fresh, but not the rest of her. She’s not here. He follows it to a stain of it across the ground, droplets curving out as though she’s been picked up. Someone’s carried her off. He’s seen the kind of blood pattern before. Too many times. He follows the blood drops until he comes to a patch of grass. Her scent is heavier here, there’s more blood, then the blood is gone. He can piece together that she was carried, put down and her wound was tied off to not leave a trail. He can see the guards they put out, all dead. But not by the same arrows. Rather by the bruising around their necks. Pym is alive, she has to be. The sword marks look Paladin but the arrows are different. It doesn’t matter, if the Paladins saw them talking—

“That bitch!”

He turns at the Red Spear’s bellow and returns just in time to see her drive an axe into a tree, splitting the arrow. It doesn’t seem to be enough because she yells again and strikes the tree. Some of the other Fey have followed, flanked by ones that are to guard them. They look at him and he nods to indicate where the bodies of their fallen are. They look at him with suspicion but no-one gives him a wider berth as they move to collect their dead. He moves towards the Red Spear. The familiarity of the arrows hits him as he looks closer. They’re Raider arrows. He recognizes the dark wood and the black fletching. He can out think the Paladins. But the Raiders—he wants to kick himself. The Raiders are not what he would have expected to find them.

“Where is she?!” The Red Spear roars, coming over to him.

“Blood stops over there,” he says, “I can track her.”

“Over water? They’re headed for the sea,” he frowns, “back to Cumber. They’re taking my healer back to Cumber,” she bares her teeth, “I’ll have her head for this!”

The Red Spear stalks off. Lancelot looks back at the way that he came, watching the Fey cart off their dead. He itches to run until he catches her. But the head start on horseback puts him at a disadvantage. He needs to ride to have any hope of catching them before they make it to the sea. Squirrel looks at him anxiously. He looks at Goliath whose gone back to grazing, as though everything is alright in the world. He raises his head, even though Lancelot’s standing on his blind side.

“Are you going after her?”

“Yes,” he says.

“You won’t catch them if they make it to the sea,” The Red Spear says.

“Then I’ll catch them before they do that,” he shoots back, looking up at Squirrel, “you need to stay here with Goliath.”

“The hell I am,” he says. The scared Fey boy behind him gasps, “it’s alright,” Squirrel says before focusing back on Lancelot, “I’m just going to follow you if you say no.”

“You’re not taking on the Raiders—“ The Red Spear starts.

“Enough!” Lancelot silences all of them with one sharp word. Frustration spikes through him but he doesn’t let it linger. For once he can take advantage of the reputation he’s got, “I’m going after her. We’ll catch up with you.”

The Red Spear bares her teeth but his patience has gone. He glares back at her, daring her to tell him he’s not going to do something he absolutely is. No amount of Raiders or Fey or Paladins are going to stop him from making sure that Pym does not end up with more guilt on her soul for what she has to do to escape. It’s not something he’s willing to entertain.

“We need to keep moving,” Arthur breaks in, his voice calm. Calmer than Lancelot thinks it has any right to be, “if they took Pym to get to either of you, she’s not the one they’re after. They’ll take more. Our best chance is to keep moving and get to where we are going.”

The Red Spear tightens her grip on her blade and steps forward. Arthur is smarter than Lancelot gave him credit for when he raises his hands.

“I’m just saying what we’re all thinking.”

“Speak for yourself or keep your mouth shut,” she snaps and turns to Lancelot. He’s not used to people invading his space in the way that she does, but he refuses to back down. He may not be used to that but he’s used to holding his own line, even if it’s just in terms of his pride as a fighter, “I want Eydis’ death to hurt,” she says, “badly.”

He inclines his head in acknowledgment. She stares him down for a moment longer and then moves back. He walks over to the horse and helps the younger Fey boy down. For once the boy doesn’t look petrified for him. He wavers for a moment before he looks up at Lancelot, dragging his gaze to him.

“My name’s Bors,” he says.

Lancelot ignores the urge to just keep moving and nods in acknowledgment. Bors runs off to the other Fey. Lancelot looks at Squirrel who glares back at him, raising up his hand in a very unsubtle reminder that as much as he would like him back and safe, if Lancelot wants to keep his secrets he may actually need him. But his secrets are worthless if it gets Squirrel or Pym killed.

“I need you stay here with Goliath.”

“That’s a stupid excuse,” Squirrel says.

“I need you here,” Arthur says, surprising them both, “someone needs to leave enough of a trail for him to follow without letting the others find our presence.”

Squirrel looks down, still not convinced.

“You would be useful but I cannot watch you and get Pym out,” he says, “stay with Goliath. Do as Arthur says. We’ll ride together soon enough.”

Squirrel grudgingly nods and lets Lancelot help him get on Goliath. He mounts the other horse, looking at Arthur. He doesn’t understand the man’s tendency to help. But he’s grateful for it. Between him and the Red Spear, he knows that Squirrel will be safe. Regardless of what happens. He regrets leaving them both behind but he knows that this is the best chance he has at saving her. What he’s not expecting is for one of Arthur’s men to show up and hand him a pair of swords which he passes to Lancelot.

“Why?” Lancelot asks, not sure what he’s referring to.

“Nimue made me swear to get them somewhere safe, not go after her,” he says, “I couldn’t save her from the Paladins. Not without betraying her. Maybe you’ll be able to do what I could not.”

It’s a very strange thing to feel something like respect for someone he’s bested. It’s another thing that he will have to think about after he gets Pym back. He pulls the amulet off of his neck and hands it to Squirrel.

“Wear it until we get back,” he tells him.

He guides the horse to the edge of the clearing and closes his eyes. He needed to take the amulet off since it is heavy with Pym’s scent. It makes her more difficult to track if it’s always in his nose after he’s picked it up. He focuses and is able to get the general direction that she’s gone.

He digs his heels into the horse and takes off after her.


	25. Chapter 25

She wakes up mid air.

There’s hands high around her ribcage and she feels herself being dragged off a horse. Her first thought is that maybe she’s already being rescued, but the smells are all wrong and the hands that grip her are full of rings. One of them brushes against her bare skin carelessly and she bites down on her lip to keep from crying out at the burning.

“Be careful! She’s no good to us if she’s dead,” a guttural voice snarls.

“It’s just a burn.”

She feels her wrists being handled and realizes that her manacles are probably covered iron. Her knot magic isn’t going to be able to get them off. Not like the ropes. Instead she focuses on laying as still as possible so that they think she’s still unconscious. The more she gets her wits about her, the better off she’ll be. If she curves her neck just right, the hood bows out. She can see the thick black of their boots and the studded stirrups they use. Her mind drags to Goliath and she can feel the pain in her arm. If she tries to move her mouth up she can feel the dried blood. She hopes the horse is alright.

Pym looks around for a flash of red, but it’s not there. Another horse walks into view, but their rider just wears black. But this black is long. It’s not the rough leather that the others are wearing, fit for combat. Breathing in the fresh air helps even as the blood starts rushing to her head. She closes her eyes as her head is jerked up and the hood is pulled off. She’s never been a good liar and even something like lying to be asleep is impossible. A gloved hand grips her chin and then pain explodes across her face. She opens her eyes and looks into the gold face. She’s only seen it once, right before the green fire took it, but Squirrel has told her stories. Beyond the gold face she can see others, interspersed with Raiders.

“She’s not to harmed,” one of the Raiders says, “we have orders.”

  
“Your orders mean nothing. We answer to God,” the gold masked one says in a voice so emotionless that it sends ice through her veins.

“Well we answer to Cumber the Ice King,” the Raider says, “and unless your God wants to show up and explain to him why his orders haven’t been followed, I’d keep your hands off her.”

She’s dropped back across the saddle, her head jarring with the impact. The party moves forward. They are well trained, that much is clear. It’s not the slow pace of the group that she was a part of, these are all trained warriors. There’s no young ones or untrained and the group is small. They are covering ground fast. The iron keeps her from being any kind of useful with her magic. She’s never thought of her magic as particularly impressive but being without it makes her feel more vulnerable. Her braid dangles temptingly close, but when she reaches towards it she sees one of the gold masks snap towards her. There’s no subtle way to do it. But she reaches for the braid purposefully and the party grounds to a halt. This time when they backhand her, she bites the inside of her lip.

“Hey!”

“Don’t do that again,” the gold mask orders, “she’s trying to leave a trail.”

They resume their pace and her heart pounds. All she’s seen from the gold masked figures is defeat. She doesn’t expect them to be so vicious. She makes a whimper and hangs her head. When no-one is looking, she parts her lips and lets the smallest drop of blood she can manage fall.

Lancelot has never seemed to need a lot to track.

She knew that before she ever thought she would be relying on it. She doesn’t consider that maybe he’s stayed with the others. That maybe he’s done the sensible thing. He’s a tracker. He’s going to track her. And he’s already been away from the group for most of the day. Guilt churns through her. She knows Lancelot is coming for her, despite their argument in the woods. Despite the fact that Goliath may be hurt. If the one thing he truly cares about dies without him because he’s chasing after her when her captors have made the decision to keep her alive—she doesn’t know if she can stand that thought. But she can make it easier for him to find her.

The air takes on the smell of salt and smoke and suddenly her faith in being kept alive weakens.

They’ve burned the Red Spear’s ships.

Maybe the men she left behind got out. They can always get new ships. But for some reason the thought of yet another place she felt at home going up in flames makes her eyes burn and her throat tighten. She realizes that the idea of staying with the Red Spear and having adventures really was going to wind up being her ultimate choice. Adventure over safety. She can practically hear her mother’s surprised laugh. She had always talked about staying close, about being safe. The idea of her willingly throwing herself into something else would make anyone who knew her before laugh. Even Nimue, though she’d probably get on board faster than most. She’d probably be proud too.

Pym doesn’t feel especially brave as they start to pick up speed though. As the trees start to fall away and the smoke gets thicker and finally the beach with the burning ships comes into view. Behind them there are two ships. It’s like the Church and the Raiders are observing the destruction of yet another one of her homes. The Raider slows his horse and the gold masked one comes up besides her and before Pym can think any of this through, she spits the blood onto the gold mask.

“God is going to send you to Hell,” she tells the gold mask and looks at the Raider, “and Guinevere is going to skewer you like a fish!”

Another one drags her off the horse before either of them can strike her, apparently remembering the orders he’s been given. She squirms against the Raider’s grip before he shoves her into the embrace of a gold masked figure. Even the difference in their build is apparent. There’s something lean and cruel about the way the gold masked man handles her. When he grips her arms, he finds some place that makes spots dance in front of her eyes. He pulls her along towards the boats. She looks back to see the Raider she said would be skewered dismount and turn towards the forest.

Vines explode through the man, lifting him up and ripping him in two.

The beach erupts into chaos.

The guard holding her shoves her aside to draw his sword. She hits the sand and scrambles to her feet. The vines slice through him as well. It only takes a moment before she starts running towards them.

It’s illogical to run back into the woods, but the vines that lash through the air are the better way to die, as far as she can tell. She could try swimming out but without her hands she knows she won’t make it far. Someone grabs at her ankle and she rips her foot free, pausing only long enough to kick her boot into the gold mask as hard as she can. Pain crunches through her toes but it’s worth it as she takes off into the woods. If she gets far enough away she can think about how to get back where she came from and how to avoid whatever is going on.

The arm grabs her waist and the sword presses to her throat. She sees gold out of the corner of her eye and her stomach drops further. They are the group that has no reason to keep her alive. They spin her around and the whiplash adds another injury as they wrench her head back. 

“Don’t come any closer,” the voice spits, though there’s a note of fright in it, “I’ll kill her like I killed the Wolf-Blood Witch!”

“Then she’ll be fine,” Nimue spits, “let her go.”

Pym can’t see her but her heart jumps at the sound of her friend’s voice. Any lingering doubt is erased, even though it was never much to begin with. Nimue has always been the strongest of them. Pym can’t see her but she can feel the grass start to whisper. Something is happening. She tries to push away but Iris pulls her painfully closer and drags the blade across her collarbone before shoving it against her neck. Letting her go means death. She digs her heels in as Iris tries to drag her backwards, she’s bigger than the girl. Though not by much. She feels vines grow and wrap around her feet, as though the very earth is trying to keep her there. Iris slices them and puts the blade back, this time breaking the skin of her neck.

“Stop or I’ll cut her throat!” She orders, backing up against the nearest tree so her back is protected, “You’re next Wolf Blood! I’ll kill—“

An arrow sinks through her neck.

Pym just manages to grab her wrist before the blade can cut her throat as Iris collapses. The iron burns against her skin as the shackles move. The sword drops and Iris’s hand grabs blindly at hers. Pym shifts her grip, lowering the dying girl to the ground. The arrow makes it impossible for her to breathe. Pym holds her hand as she chokes and then goes still. She grip her limp fingers for a moment longer, until she’s sure. Just to be absolutely certain, she pulls back the mask to reveal blank eyes and lips that are wet with blood. She touches under Iris’ nose but feels no breath on her skin. She’s dead. At the sound of another arrow from a different direction, Pym remembers she’s still in the middle of a battlefield and staggers up, almost bumping heads with Nimue.

Nimue looks the same superficially. There’s something in her eyes that is new, but Pym imagines that she looks different as well. Even in the midst of all that’s going on, Pym finds herself grinning at the sight of her old friend. Nimue’s face splits into one as well and she reaches to embrace her.

“Be careful!” Pym cries, yanking her hands away before Nimue can fully embrace her, “it’s iron.”

“Right,” Nimue says, the hurt turning to anger at the ones who put her in it, “of course—“

“We’ll hug later,” Pym assures her.

Nimue grins again in the middle of battle and something in Pym’s heart jumps with the pure joy. Nimue quickly pulls the covering over Pym’s wrists and then picks up the dropped sword as lightening cracks the sky, joining the vines that hold the others back.

“Your father found us,” Pym offers, “so did Morgana.”

“I brought Gawain back to life,” Nimue says, motioning to the vines. Pym looks at her in surprise, “he’ll meet us where it’s safe. Come on. We need to find cover.”

She can’t see Lancelot but she has to trust that he’s there. She doesn’t know anyone else who could have made the shot he did. Staying alive is the most important thing. Nimue leads her away from the battle. Nimue has always been better with the forest, more in tune with it. But when Pym steps on the net, she’s still disappointed as it snaps around her and hauls her up. Nimue turns as she shoots upwards. She’s not surprised when two gold masked guards pull her up. She looks down to see it’s another trap, like the one they laid for Lancelot.

“Run!” Pym screams down to her before one of them claps a hand over her mouth.

Nimue looks up to see them with their bows drawn. Vines spiral out of the ground and cover her as they loose their arrows. Pym tries to get free but they hold her tight as they shoot at the friend she just got back. Pym can’t watch her die, not like this. She shoves and struggles and manages to break their grip, though there’s nowhere for her to go.

A familiar arrow hits one of them just below the mask at a steep angle. Pym has no time to look as she hears the tree start to crack in a chillingly familiar way. The only thing that she can do is to throw herself backwards and pray she’s not about to wind up splattered on the ground. The tree splits apart in a terrifying crack of green that makes her vision turn white. When she lands in someone’s arms, it’s hard to see anything. But she hears Nimue’s shriek of fury and the horse backs up as a wall of something flies ups.

“Stop!” She cries, “Nimue stop!” She turns towards him, “Lancelot?”

“Yes,” he says tightly and something in her relaxes.

“It’s alright,” she says to Nimue, blinking though all it seems to do is make her eyes water more, “he’s with us.”

“What?” Nimue says.

“He’s with us,” she repeats.

There’s the sound of ripping fabric.

“Close your eyes,” Lancelot says. He winds the fabric around her eyes, “they need to rest.”

“We need to get out of here,” she shoots back, “Nimue I promise I’ll explain but we need to get out of here. He needs to come with us.”

She hears Lancelot sharply inhale and tense. There’s a sound of something collecting together. Amidst the smoke and blood, she can smell something sweet. Like summer flowers. There’s a sound like a rock is walking across it but it sharpens into an almost metallic clank.

“It’s alright,” a voice says, one that’s familiar and new at the same time. It’s a combination of a summer breeze and Gawain’s voice, “have you found your way home, brother?”

Lancelot gestures with his head but Pym can’t see what he does. She can hear Nimue's sharp inhale but she cannot interpret that either.

“Come this way,” the thing that sounds like Gawain and not Gawain says, “and be careful, she’s wearing iron.”


	26. Chapter 26

Of all the things he’s expecting to happen, finding the things that were once Nimue and Gawain isn’t one of them.

They aren’t themselves, not in the way that they were. Their scents are different. The earthy tones are dampened, Nimue now smells of sea and storm and the way that the water does when it meets stones. Gawain smells of flowers and trees, but there’s death there as well. He’s smelled enough dead Fey to recognize it. They’ve led them a cave and though he wants to just race back to the group, leading the two of them there doesn’t seem like the smartest plan. He also has no intention of riding back and risking injuring Pym further. Her cheek and lip are swollen, there’s several shallow cuts he can see on her neck and a burn that he knows is from the iron. But he’s mostly concerned with her eyes.

“I’ll help you down,” he tells her and dismounts, easing her off the horse and helping her down.

She takes a step forward and hisses through her teeth. He grips her arm and helps shoulder her weight. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Nimue’s eyes narrow. He isn’t sure if it is the cloak or if his hair has moved to reveal the Cross, but something has tipped her off to his previous allegiance. He doesn’t know if she’s aware of the extent of his involvement, the fact that he hasn’t been run through with vines would suggest she is not. But while he has his guts inside him, he focuses on keeping Pym’s weight off her ankle. Though she’s blinded, she seems to realize everyone’s focused on her.

“I kicked one of those masked people in the face,” she explains, “then I kept running on it.”

“I’ll heal you,” Nimue says.

“We need to clear the beach first,” Gawain says.

“It will only take a moment!” Nimue snaps. The foliage around them trembles and she clenches her fists.

“Nimue I’m okay,” Pym speaks up, “as long as I’m not walking on my ankle, none of it hurts badly,” Nimue looks at her and though she can’t see, Pym smiles, “you should go help Gawain clear the beach. It’s not safe for everyone else while they’re here. I can hold on until you get back.”

Nimue hesitates and Lancelot feels his grip tighten slightly on Pym’s arm. The kind of power that Nimue’s displaying is unlike anything he’s seen. But he recognizes the uncontrolled nature of it. He’s put Pym through too many close calls today. The idea of risking that kind of power going into her is not one he’s prepared to entertain. It’s Gawain who steps in and coaxes Nimue back.

“She said she would be alright,” he says.

“I’m not leaving her with him!” Nimue snaps, moving back from Gawain and looking at Lancelot, “he should come with us.”

He’s very used to accepting orders. But some dig into a part of him that he has always sought to suppress. Orders like letting Brother Salt have Squirrel. Or Nimue drag him away to leave Pym unprotected. That isn’t happening again for a long time. Not when she was kidnapped while he was so close.

“Nimue—“ Gawain starts.

“His name’s Lancelot,” Pym cuts in, “Squirrel brought him to me back on the Coast. He’s been traveling with us since. He’s Squirrel’s squire,” she explains, “those Raiders took me after I sent him back to the group to check on Squirrel. After I got upset at him for not telling me he was riding alone,” she leans against his arm, “I bit my lip to leave a trail for him so he’d find me as quickly as he did. But that’s the longest we’ve been apart since the Coast.”

Nimue and Gawain’s jaws are both slackened. When he hears the story like that, he can understand why. He’s painfully aware of how his appearance is still very much that of his old life. If one just saw him, it would be difficult to see the difference. He looks over at Gawain or the thing that he has become. He closes his mouth and tightens his jaw and looks from them to Nimue.

“If he is planning to take her back to the Paladins, we’ll see them on the beach—“

“Close us in,” Lancelot cuts him off. Everyone looks at them, “we’ll be in the cave when you return.”

Nimue hesitates and then looks at him.

“If you hurt her—“

“He isn’t going to hurt me,” Pym cuts in.

Nimue presses her lips together in disgust and takes a few paces back. Grass and vines and trees grow up and join together, sealing them off. The smell of the Fey magic makes his stomach roll but he shoves the nausea aside. It doesn’t matter. He isn’t sure if Pym is leaning on him because she’s hurt or to show she trusts him to Nimue, but either way the moment they are gone he helps her over to the wall of the cave where there’s enough light to see but more shadows. He gets her back against the wall and helps her sit down.

“Is Goliath alright?” She asks abruptly, “and everyone else?”

“They killed the guards on the outskirts,” he says, “a few horses as well. They caused a stampede. It was mostly supplies that were lost,” he explains, “Goliath was injured but he’ll be alright.”

“He saved my life,” she says, “he pulled me down. I told him to run. I was hoping he would find you.”

“He tried,” he says, “They put an arrow through his eye,” he admits. Pym inhales sharply, “I fixed it. He’ll be alright. Squirrel is with him.”

“I bet he loved you telling him to stay,” she says, “I can take a look when we get back. I had a Raider who lost his eye,” she hesitates a moment and then leans forward, “I’m not blind am I?”

“No,” he says, his voice sharp and quick. She draws back slightly at the tone. He takes a breath and tries again, “it’s just the glare.”

“Like looking at the sun on the water for too long,” she says, relaxing backwards, “they kept me under the deck for a lot of it, but when I went up I nearly blinded myself,” she smiles, “it seems to be a theme.”

“Your eyes will be fine,” he repeats, “what else?”

“Nothing life threatening,” she says. Even without her eyes she seems to know that’s not a good answer, “my arm, the cuts on my neck, they were wearing iron so I have a few burns. I made them hit me—“

“Why?” He cuts in.

“It was the only way I could think of to leave a trail,” she says, “I didn’t want you to waste time looking if you were coming after me while Goliath was hurt.”

She seems one step ahead of his emotions sometimes, but he’s grateful she can’t see the surprise on his face. He doubted that she was aware of his single minded focus on getting to her, right up until he found the drops of blood that she left. It made the trail laughably easy to follow, though the drops were too small to be concerned she was bleeding without them noticing. It was a smart idea, but the swelling of her cheek irritates him. Getting hurt is a part of life, especially the lives they are living. Seeing a harmless mark shouldn’t irritate him the way that it does.

“I found your trail,” he says, “you made it easy to track you.”

“Good,” she says, perking up at her plan having worked. Though as far as he’s seen, the vast majority of her plans seem to work as she wishes them to, “my eyes and my ankle are the only other things. But I’m fine,” she adds.

“Let me see your ankle,” he says.

She nods and he brings her leg into his lap. Lancelot pushes her skirt up to get to the top of her boots. She inhales sharply as he grips her thigh and tries to bite her lip before remembering that’s a foolish idea. She doesn’t tell him she’s injured. He undoes the lacing at the top of her boot and loosens it down her shin, guiding the boot off and supporting her ankle. He grips her foot gently and she makes an odd sound.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not what you’re doing right now,” she says, “my feet are ticklish. So’s behind my leg,” he raises an eyebrow, “don’t tell me, the ticklish spots are signs of my evilness.”

“Keep your eyes closed,” he says.

“They are,” she replies, “I don’t need to see your face to know what expression you’re wearing.” 

“I’ve noticed,” he comments, turning her ankle gently, “push against my hand,” he says. She does, “it’s not broken.”

“That’s a relief,” she remarks, “I wouldn’t think someone who knows how to heal would be good at checking like this,” she adds, something almost shy in her voice.

  
He understands her confusion. But between the Paladin’s loathing of touching him and his focus on keeping the Fire from them, he had to learn to judge which injuries could be healed their way and which could be healed in his own way. Even his healing ability is cobbled together from trial and error. How much energy to take, how much was needed for which injury, all of it was something he had to learn himself. Out of sight from the others. Though the only Fey talent that Father or any of them found use in was his tracking. Even the healing, once they learned of it, was forbidden. It was a defiance of God’s will. A mark against his soul.

“I had to judge which injuries were worth healing,” he says, “and which were worth being seen by the healers.”

She turns her head down. He’s used to her ability to read him, but it’s surprising how easily he knows the expression on her face. Even without her being able to show it.

“Let me see your eyes.”

She leans forward and he undoes the makeshift bandage. She blinks a few times in the dim light. Her eyes are red and irritated, but they focus on him. Relief is naked on her face. He finds he can breathe a bit easier as well. His lack of experience with his own Fire is becoming more of a problem. He’s never had someone come close and survive or look at it like she did.

“Well that’s a relief,” she remarks with a quick smile, “you look worried,” he looks up at her, “I’m alright,” she says again, “they said they weren’t going to kill me—“

“They don’t always speak the truth,” he says.

“I thought lying was a sin,” she says.

He knows she’s trying to tease him but his humor is gone. Now that she’s fine he can see his failure laid out. He should have known that the Paladins and the Ice King would continue to work together, that a common enemy would bind everyone. Covering them from the Paladins was one thing, but he had miscalculated how good Cumber’s people were at tracking. The failure is unacceptable. The consequences are on him. If his gifts aren’t used to aide people then what is the good of them? Of him? He’s just another abomination. His skin itches to repent. As he knows he should. For the deaths, for Goliath, for her being captured, for all of his failures.

She wiggles her foot, drawing his attention back to her. Her reddened eyes scan his face and he has to fight the urge to pull his hood up and turn from the inspection. 

“I’m alright,” she repeats.

“You’re hurt.”

“Superficially,” she says, “and only until Nimue gets back to heal me. Then we can go back to the others.”

She turns as the walls sealing them in vanish as Nimue and Gawain appear. The forest has gone quiet. Nimue wastes no time in hurrying forward. Lancelot ignores the disappointment that curdles in his mouth. Nimue shoots him a look at the sight of Pym’s boot being off. He moves her leg off his thigh, gently placing it on the ground. Pym opens her mouth but he gets up and steps away, sensing that his presence is not wanted. If it helps Nimue focus her magic on healing Pym, he’s willing to give them space. Though stepping out of the cave brings him face to face with what the Green Knight has become. He’s making a soft sound to the horse who seems pleased at his presence.

“This is your horse,” Lancelot realizes aloud.

“I have no horses anymore,” Gawain replies, his voice echoing, “but I foaled him. Started training him. He was to be my new charger. When I had use for such things.”

The horses ease with combat and quick learning makes far more sense if he was to be Gawain’s new charger. Arthur shoved the horse at him, but he doesn’t know how it came to him. If it was by accident or something more. It seems like blasphemy that he should be fitted into the roles. Like the betrayal of the Knight knows no bounds. But Gawain seems not upset by any of the things that he’s learned. He seems at peace. Lancelot would say that perhaps he did not have use for things such as grudges, but the memory of the vines ripping through the Paladins and the Raiders tells him that isn’t true. The idea that Gawain would accept this isn’t on he understands.

“He did well,” Gawain says, “you’ve been training him along your own,” he smiles, “even as enemies I was impressed with your horse.”

“I was training him to give to Squirrel,” he says. Gawain looks surprised, “he’ll need a horse.”

“He’ll need one who can put up with his knack for trouble,” Gawain says. Lancelot nods, “he seems fit for the job.”

“He will be.”

The Green Knight strokes down the horse’s forehead again and looks at Lancelot. It’s almost automatic to stand as he was taught when Father or the Abbots would inspect him. The pity that flashes across Gawain’s face cuts in a way that does nothing to alleviate the itch. Salvation is in the cuts on his flesh, cuts that show penance. Cuts that will save his soul. The litanies still tumble through his head, no matter how much he knows they are folly. No matter how he knows that the man who said them was a liar and is dead. It’s as though the have taken a life of their own.

“You are among friends, brother,” Gawain says.

“I am not,” he refutes. Gawain’s look goes from disappointed to softer and Lancelot finds he needs to swallow back bile, “you were right about what I have done.”

“I was also right about them needing you,” Gawain says, “she would not be alive if not for you.”

He thinks of Pym getting herself hurt to leave a trail and having the sense to keep Iris from cutting her throat. He thinks of Squirrel throwing the rock to allow him a chance to get his strength back. Of all the things that they have done with no fighting skill between them. For all that he can fight, the events of today still occurred. Fey were lost, Pym was captured, the list repeats.

“That isn’t true,” he says, “she escaped before.”

Gawain opens his mouth and then goes silent. Lancelot doesn’t like the look that appears on his face. Some kind of understanding. But he wishes it back when the kindness returns.

“You are among friends,” he says, “in time you will see it.”

He opens his mouth to reply but both are distracted by the raised voices that come from the cave. Frustration crosses Gawain’s face and he looks back to where he came. Lancelot has faith that the beach has been cleared by their powers, but he still drops his hand to the sword and shifts so he can see anyone who might be coming. They both look at the cave to see Pym come striding out. She’s fully healed and her face is flushed with anger. Nimue comes after her, angry as well. Lancelot looks at Gawain who seems to have no better grasp on the situation than he does.

“I’ve been healed by our great Fey Queen,” Pym snaps. Nimue throws her hands up, “shall we return on foot or will your magic take us there? Your Majesty?”

“Well since your loyalties are elsewhere, why don’t you decide?” Nimue shoots back.

“Both of you stop!” Gawain says, his voice echoing. Nimue is the Queen and Pym is not someone Lancelot would cross, but they both seem to realize the foolishness of what they’re doing, “we need to rejoin the others. This argument can wait.”

“You’re right,” Nimue says, looking upwards, “Merlin! We’re ready!”

The ground around them glows white. The smell that takes the air something beyond even what he has seen today. It’s always been faintly on Merlin, like a hint of what he once was. Even now it’s much stronger being in the center of it. Notes of it are in Nimue’s power, he realizes. He focuses on that. Nimue, Pym, the horse and Gawain close their eyes. In the brightness, Pym’s hand grabs his. 

There’s a lurching feeling and then they are in a different part of the forest with the rest of the group that they left behind.


	27. Chapter 27

The celebration is inevitable.

Pym doesn’t dare say that they should keep moving, that this is a terrible idea. After everything that has happened, people want to celebrate the return of their Queen. Merlin has his daughter back, though he seems to be using that as a reason to get drunk. And Arthur—Arthur seems to have a great weight lifted off him. There’s even some light in Morgana, as if the joy of her friend’s return has pulled her back towards the living. And Squirrel is overjoyed. Not just at having Nimue back but at having Gawain there. The revelry isn’t loud, but it’s the most she’s seen people smile since, well, the last time that Nimue was with them.

Which makes her feel all the worse for not being overjoyed.

“You were right,” Morgana says, pressing a drink into her hand, “you always knew—“

“I’ve just known her longer,” Pym assures her, “I don’t think you believed she was dead in your heart.”

By the time the third cup is placed into her hand, Pym realizes she’s feeling rather alright about everything. She also realizes she’s probably going to start to be too open with her words. She’s caused enough trouble getting herself kidnapped again. She picks up two of the cups and decides to go visit the horses. Though she’s already checked Goliath’s eye. Lancelot did a good job with what he had. But she was able to bandage the wound and put something on it to help any lingering pain. Bandaging a horse had been a new experience but Lancelot had laid a hand on Goliath and the horse had been perfectly still. She’s not surprised when she finds Lancelot brushing the horse, speaking to him softly while on his blind side.

“I have something for you,” she says. He turns and looks her up and down, his eyes settling on the cups, “you can finish. But you really should try this.”

“What is it?” He asks.

“It’s ambrosia,” she says, “it’s a Fey drink.”

He puts something on his belt takes the cup from her, putting his nose to it first. She means to warn him but the words don’t come out in time. He pulls back sharply, surprised at the bubbles. He’s almost cautious when he takes a sip. She barely remembers her first time drinking it, but she imagines he’s never had it before. It’s sweeter and bubblier than the stuff the Raiders drink, but it’s strong as well. She’s not sure if it’s the sweetness or the bubbles that catch him off guard but the surprised look on his face grows worse. She coughs to hide her amusement, not wanting him to feel bad. But it doesn’t work.

“I’m sorry, it’s easier after the first glass,” she promises.

“It’s strange,” he says. But he takes another mouthful, “but it’s familiar.”

“Maybe you had it before,” she offers. She looks at the shadow that’s passed across his face as he tries to remember, “unless the Ash Folk young ones didn’t do things like sneak ambrosia.”

“How young were you?”

“Probably around Squirrel’s age,” she admits, “I was sick to my stomach,” she looks at him, “so what do Paladins drink?”

“Watered wine,” he says. She pulls a face of disgust, “we don’t drink it for pleasure,” he points out.

“You don’t claim to do anything for pleasure,” Pym remarks.

Lancelot gives her a dry look. She knows it’s the soul they care about, not the body. Which is ironic because she’s seen them do plenty of terrible things to bodies. But she’s become very aware that there’s a level of hypocrisy in the church. Then she thinks of the Fey and their judgement despite claiming all are brothers and she thinks that there’s a similarity there she’s not entirely comfortable with.

“Did it ever bother you that they would do things for pleasure?” She asks curiously.

“No,” he says, “the suffering was necessary for what I was, what I had done,” he tells her, “and the other thing.”

“Was that your idea or theirs?”

He is quiet for a moment and she’s thinks it’s probably not a question that he wants to answer. But after another, he takes a drink and looks about as though the trees might have an answer.

“I don’t know,” he admits, “their beliefs fit together with what I understood,” he says, “it was my idea,” he settles on finally, “everything was to keep someone’s soul from hellfire, it made sense that I would need it in its purest form.”

It’s a horrible thing to think. But the worst of it is she can see the logic that he would have as a boy. Bodily harm kept him from making fire, fire was evil, it fits together very well. She wishes that she could blame it on the Paladins but she imagines if they knew what he could do, their stories would have been very different. She’s yet to see any of them show restraint when it comes to eliminating the Fey. What they could do with that Fire, she thinks that there would be none left. Even here among people who are more accepting, he’s already had to use it several times without anyone finding out. She can see why he would need to keep it discrete.

“You know you could have wiped us out with it,” she says softly, “but for all you thinks it’s evil, I’ve only actually ever seen you use it to save Fey,” Goliath whinnies, “and horses. Fey and horses.”

He looks at Goliath and the bandages where his eye was. The horse seems fine. He’s already gone back to eating the grass and doesn’t seem perturbed by his lack of vision. She remembers the Raider who lost his eye, he returned up to deck to the fighting as soon as she had finished bandaging him up. Even though it seemed like something that needed to be rested. None of the Raiders liked to rest. She thinks Goliath would have made a good Raider. Actually they both probably would have.

“It was still killing,” he says. She looks at the dark look on his face, “it wasn’t supposed to be used like that,” he explains, “I’ve spent my life hiding it, like I was supposed to.”

“You were proud of that,” she realizes aloud.

He looks away but the color on his cheeks tells her the answer. His entire life seems to have been built around shame at his Fey identity and abilities. The narrative the Paladins forced on him fit eerily well with it. She doesn’t want to be sympathetic to what he’s told her, but she understands grasping at a fragment of a lost home. Far, far too well. Her family didn’t die keeping any secrets. Not like his. They chose to burn rather than risk the Fire falling into anyone’s hands. Especially the Paladins, but considering how Fey Fire is whispered about and how long gone the Ash Folk were thought to be, she knows keeping it from the other Fey was something also worth dying for.

“Well I can’t speak for Goliath, but I’ve kept my mouth shut. So has Squirrel,” he looks back at her, “we’re not going to tell.”

“You may need to,” he says, “if Squirrel becomes Gawain’s Squire—“

“You can’t be serious!” She says, “I won’t need to and Squirrel isn’t doing that.”

“He should,” he says, “Gawain can teach him to be a Fey Knight.”

“Didn’t you defeat Gawain?”

“There’s more to a Knight than combat,” he says.

“Not right now there isn’t,” she counters, “and even if he did, he wouldn’t betray you like that.”

“It isn’t about betrayal,” he says. She raises an eyebrow and ignores his frustration as he takes another drink, “a Squire has to be loyal above all else to the Knight he serves.”

“Thinking your Knight is going to betray you doesn’t seem very loyal to me,” she says.

He presses his lips together. She’s used to dealing with stubborn people who could kill her in any manner of ways. Besides she doubts any will ever be as terrifying as the Red Spear telling her if her ale went sour she was going to be thrown overboard. At the very least the other deaths she’s been threatened with are quicker. Even with his frustration though, there’s something almost vulnerable in his expression. Gloomy and vulnerable. Even if she doesn’t blame him for what happened, it’s clear that he still blames himself and no amount of reassurance is going to fix that. Impossibly high standards seem to be part of being a Paladin, but unlike the rest of them he doesn’t seem to have the ego to warp them.

“Not that I’m an expert on the finer points of being a Fey Knight, but I think you can teach Squirrel about being more than just a fighter,” she says.

“I’m not either,” he says finally. She gives him a questioning look, “not an expert on being a Fey Knight.”

She laughs because it’s true, neither of them has any knowledge on the finer points of it. It’s a simple fact. He was never given the chance and being a Knight was never something that crossed her mind. When she opens her mouth to explain the sad but somehow also funny fact, for the first time she realizes she doesn’t have to.

He’s laughing as well.

It’s not self conscious, it’s just simple laughter he doesn’t even bother to hide. Which only makes her laugh harder. That seems to egg him on as well. It’s only when Goliath turns to see what the fuss is that she manages to get herself somewhat under control, but then she winds up snorting when she tries to contain herself and not scare the poor horse. None of it works particularly well and none of it seems to matter.

“For what it’s worth, I think you’ll be a fine Knight one day,” she says. 

He nods his head.

“I think you would have made a fine one as well,” he offers. She laughs, “I do.”

“I’d be a terrible Knight,” she says, “Knights are brave, they can fight, they do—all those things I don’t know about,” she waves a hand, “I’ve gone unconscious in every fight I’ve been in,” she enjoys the bubbles on her tongue, “no, I think—I hope—I’ll make a decent healer one day.”

“You’re a fine healer,” he says.

“That doesn’t count from someone who can heal themselves,” she says.

“Goliath thinks you’re a fine healer,” he says without missing a beat.

“Fine, I’ll accept that from Goliath,” she compromises, “Oh, speaking of which—hold this,” she says, handing him her cup and digging into her pocket, “it’s Fey tradition to bring someone whose hurt something to help them feel better,” Goliath raises his head, “yes this is for you. Someone doesn’t believe in bodily pleasure,” she opens the wax paper, “the Raiders brought some dried fruit with them. It’s not the same as a fresh apple but it was the best I could do.”

Goliath takes the treat from her hand and chews on it, his ears flicking back and forth. There aren’t many apple rings but he devours the few she’s managed to get. She stuffs the paper into her pocket so he can’t eat it but lets him lip at her fingers for any remains. She looks up at Lancelot whose observing them with a look she’s not sure she’s ever seen on his face. It seems to be the night for those. She’s not sure she can take many more surprises. First him laughing and now this.

“What’s on your belt?” She asks. The look vanishes as his stoicism seems to come roaring back and he looks back at Goliath, his fingers tightening on the cup, “sorry, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I was just curious.”

“I was praying,” he admits finally. His eyes dart to hers like he’s expecting something but she’s not sure what, “for him.”

“Is that what that’s used for?”

He nods and hands her the cup to unhook it. He takes the cup back and offers it to her. She takes it carefully—in her non horse-licked hand—and looks. It’s a string of black beads with orange cut through their center. They move along the red silk that links them together and forms the tassel at one end. That end is threaded through a circle, bringing the cross to rest above both strands when looped together. They’re beautifully made and heavier than she would expect.

“How do you pray with this?” She asks. He seems surprised, “I mean I understand the cross bit but the rest of it—“

“Each bead is a prayer,” he says, “you say the prayer and you move it, until you’ve said them for each bead.”

“That makes sense,” she says. He looks surprised, “we have something similar,” she says, “but the beads are stationary and it’s in a loop,” he glances at her wrists, “mine’s gone,” she says, “it was wood so—“ she shrugs, “I didn’t have it on me anyway. Only the High Priestess really wore hers all the time.”

“I—“ he cuts himself off, “I was a monk,” he says.

He looks at her still as though he’s waiting for something. There’s a tension that wasn’t there before on him. She wants to ask what is wrong but she can trace it back to the heavy beads in her hand. She offers them back to him and he takes them carefully, clipping them away but the tension remains.

“Is this because I caught you praying?” She asks. He glances away, “I saw you praying back on the ship when the Red Spear was going to cut your throat.”

“That was before I was Squirrel’s Squire.”

“Is that supposed to be some kind of plug that makes you stop believing in the God you gave your life to?” She asks. He takes a drink, “I didn’t stop being Fey because the Raiders didn’t drown me. But being Fey didn’t stop me from wearing Sigurd,” he gives her a blank look, “that amulet I lent you.”

“Squirrel has it,” he says.

“I figured,” she replies, “my point is I know it’s not as simple as that.”

He nods.

“That’s why you may never believe me.”

There’s no accusation in his tone, it’s a simple reiteration of what she said. She realizes she shouldn’t be surprised he remembers that conversation. So much has happened so quickly. When she said that she couldn’t even look at him. But oddly even back then he had already demonstrated that he put great value her and Squirrel’s safety. Above even the things that actually mattered, like the secret of his Fire. She still knows there’s some truth to his words, though not as much as there was back then. Not believing him is smart, not trusting him is smart. And though she knows it logically, there’s a bittersweetness to it she doesn’t fully understand.

“It’s not that simple,” she says, forcing herself to meet his eyes. He nods in acknowledgement, “but I think there’s a difference between that and you praying over your injured horse.”

“It’s the same Faith,” he says.

“But it’s not that simple,” she repeats, “none of this is simple,” she takes a drink, “honestly it’s a wonder you’re the person I most enjoy spending time with.”

The words slip out but she knows they’re true. To the point where she can’t even deny it, no matter how embarrassing it is that everyone seems aware they keep sneaking off to talk. Or wandering off. Or visiting each other while one is chained up, kidnapped or trapped in a cave by an all powerful Fey Queen. It’s embarrassing but it hasn’t exactly made her stop. Even though now she’s with all the other Fey, some of whom she has known for her entire life. All of whom she should feel more comfortable around. He seems to sense what she is and isn’t saying and the guarded look eases.

“I enjoy your company as well,” he says.

It would be a polite remark but Lancelot doesn’t seem to do polite once his mouth opens. It explains a lot about the rumors she heard, about the silent weeping monk who never sobbed. It strikes her that the marks she used to fear have become less forbidding. All of him has. Which is saying something considering she just saw him murder dozens of people. Something sparks in the silence, something that she doesn’t have the words for.

“Well that’s all fine, but what about Goliath?” She asks, breaking it, “he seems to be the real judge of character here.”

He runs his hand across the horse’s shoulder in a gesture so familiar it’s almost automatic.

“He likes you fine. You brought him apples,” he says.

“There you two are!” Squirrel says tromping through the darkness, “I was wondering where you snuck off to this time. Bors said probably in the tent but I thought you’d be here.”

“Well you found us,” Pym says.

Squirrel nods and then freezes. His eyes going wide. Pym sees a flash of gold and a moment later she finds herself behind Lancelot. Standing in the middle of the field is a member of the Guard. Like Lancelot he carries a pair of double swords. She feels Lancelot’s weight shift as he drops his hand to his blades. Pym looks up desperately, waiting for the hail of arrows that always seem to accompany the Guard, but none come. Though the Guard is there, Goliath doesn’t even lift his head. Doesn’t act as though he’s a threat.

“Lancelot—“

Both draw their swords at the same time and, at the same moment, both charge.


	28. Chapter 28

The Guard has a wide range of abilities, but this one has earned his mask through skill.

Every move that he makes, the Guard counters. He’s fast. Speed always wins with blades, the sharp edge doesn’t require much in the way of power. They have always been taught to keep their blades sharp. The Guard has two main advantages, he’s only consumed watered wine and he’s able to move freely. Lancelot keeps himself between the Guard and the few behind him. He hasn’t heard them run but he doesn’t fully expect them to. Not after what’s just happened. It’s foolish, they should. But they don’t and he’s oddly thankful. It’s a short distance to the camp but that didn’t stop Pym from being taken or Goliath from losing an eye. He disengages with his opponent who lunges forward. Lancelot sidesteps but realizes they were not going for his flesh.

He ignores the sudden lack of weight on his belt.

He may still have his Faith and he spares a thought for the beads that scatter along the grass, but they aren’t important in this moment. He isn’t surprised the Guard has strong feelings regarding him having those, he’s killed enough of his kin to be seen as a traitor. The Guard’s mask and cloak make it difficult to judge where he’ll strike next, but the Guard’s desperation to cut his beads is a give away for what he’s focused on. Lancelot can’t hear any of his kin in the trees, but that’s not something he wants to test. He moves forward, trading blows and forcing the Guard back. The Guard narrowly avoids his strike and Lancelot allows himself to fall into it, as though off balance. It’s a risky move, he could easily be impaled but the Guard’s ego gets the best of him and instead of striking to do damage, he aims for Lancelot’s scalp. It stings and his hair comes free but it positions him perfectly to tuck into the strike and bury the pommel of his blade in the Guard’s stomach.

The Guard chokes and spit hits the inside of his mask. Lancelot turns and gets to his feet, hauling the thinner, smaller Guard up. He disarms him and pins his arms. Swords match them equally but he has the advantage in height and weight. Or he thinks he does, until the Guard hooks his leg around his and flips him over his shoulder. Lancelot rolls with it and gets to his feet, kicking out as the Guard reaches for his blade. He blocks but forgets Lancelot is still armed. Lancelot slices across his forearm and grabs his other arm, drawing it up and pinning it. The mask is to protect against the move, but Lancelot pulls his arm back and twists for a moment until it comes free of its socket. The weak point is always behind the ears and a moment later, the Guard is slumped forward.

“Goliath!”

The horse canters over and he wraps his reins around the Guard’s wrists and neck, tying them off. The Guard remains limp. Lancelot looks to the trees and listens to the forest for any other humans. Then takes a deep breath in, closing his eyes to focus. He rarely needs to these days but there are so many Fey around him. He picks up on Pym and Squirrel, the mess of scents that make up the camp and the undercurrent of two druids and whatever Morgana and Gawain have become. He focuses on separating all of them, trying to focus on the new scent

Home.

The memory wells up from some dark, forbidden corner of his mind. Running along smooth stones in smoke and fog so thick it’s impossible to see. The world is big, but not frightening. He barely comes up to the shoulder of any boy he’s with. The men and women all tower over him. They are all lost to the smoke and fog though. He can hear the ocean. He closes his eyes and sucks in air throng his nose as though taking in a deeper breath will make the task easier. He hears others laughing but he focuses on his nose, he wants to do this the proper way though it’s not easy. There’s something wrong with his nose. But he inhales and on the third breath he finds the scent. He takes off through the fog towards it—

Lancelot’s eyes fly open. The world is not big, people are not tall. He’s not near the smooth stoned beach or the fog or the smoke. He’s in the field with Goliath. There’s blood and hair in his eyes but it doesn’t matter. Despite everything the blade he’s holding drops as he rips the mask off the Guard. He sees what his nose already told him, but it’s as though he’s seeing land for the first time. His eyes don’t understand what they are being shown.

It’s been a lifetime since he’s seen the marks on a face other than his own.

“Oh look,” Merlin says quietly, appearing as though from a nightmare, “there’s two of you now. We’ll have all the Fire we could possibly need.”

Lancelot wonders if the feeling of falling will ever leave him.

The Ash Fey draped over Goliath’s saddle is unmoving and limp. Lancelot has the irrational urge to put the mask back on, to keep at least one secret for a moment longer. But the others are there suddenly, crowding around Goliath to get a look at the Ash Fey. It feels wrong that the chaos has taken over. Right as this fragment of something he didn’t know existed gets dropped onto his lap. He’s not expecting the ground to tremble. However interested people are in the Ash Fey they are wary of Gawain. He means them no harm but Lancelot doubts there has ever been anything like him to walk the earth.

“Return to camp,” he says in the new silence.

“Gather your things,” Nimue’s voice breaks in. She and Gawain look at each other, then she looks at her people, “we must be ready to move at first light.”

They all turn. Or almost all of them turn. Nimue gives them a controlled smile and they walk towards the camp. She comes to stand with the rest of them. The smells are overpowering or maybe that’s just the shock of the tear marked face hidden under the mask. It was never an insult that the Guard didn’t call for him, Father always told him that he had the skill but not the will. That to be in the Guard was to be one step closer to his Holiness, one step closer to God. Demon born could never be allowed, not until they had found Salvation. He wonders if Father knew. If he had been lied to as well. He wishes there was a way to know. But all he has is more questions as he stares at the unmoving face. Someone comes close and his hand goes for his sword.

“Easy,” Arthur says, not perturbed by his movement, “let’s get out of the field.”

“They came alone,” Gawain says.

“I wouldn’t use your vines,” Merlin says. Gawain lowers his, “or take this one too close to camp.”

“Why not?” Arthur asks.

“Because we all want to see everyone get to where they’re going. The more Ash Folk you have in one place, the more uncontrolled the Fey Fire is,” he takes a celebratory drink, “Morgana you should take it somewhere without any greenery.”

“What do you mean the more uncontrolled the Fey Fire is?” Nimue demands. Merlin says nothing and her patience seems to snap as she rips the goblet out of his hand and throws it away, “I am not an excuse for you to drink!” She says, “tell me what you meant.”

“Ash Folk make Fey Fire, it’s why they got hunted down. Then they hid and the Paladins got them. Most of them anyway,” he says, “there was a rumor that they had crystals in their stomachs that made the Fire, but that was a lie. Not that I started it,” Lancelot realizes he’s learned more about his people in a few offhanded comments from a drunk Druid than he ever has before, “I’m guessing this one can just make it on accident.”

It’s painfully silent as everyone looks at him. These people are not his friends, protecting the secret is the only thing he’s done throughout his life. But for the first time when they look at him, he feels guilty. It’s a hard thing to describe, he they owe each other nothing. But the guilt gnaws at him like a living thing. Maybe it’s the secrets they’ve shared or the kindness of letting him keep his head. Maybe it’s something else entirely. Nimue looks at him for a moment and then stalks over to Pym. The hushed exchange is hard to pick up on. That troubling feeling that he’s felt about the two of them throwing their support behind him roars like the fire. If Pym has any sense of self preservation she’ll attempt to deny it. Maybe she’ll pull off the lie. One of them should get out of this.

“You’ve been back for hours and it wasn’t my secret to tell!”

Or not.

“Hold on,” Arthur says and grips the Red Spear’s arm, “let’s hear the whole story—“

She says nothing as she throws him off and walks over to Pym and Nimue. It’s lucky that they haven’t been followed. It’s a moment longer before Nimue walks over to Merlin. The Druid sobers up fast. Not that he’s given a choice as Nimue grabs the flask and uses her magic to grind it into dust. He looks over at Pym and the Red Spear. He should go over and help but none of his body seems to be moving correctly. The sound of the Red Spear striking her shocks him out of whatever stupor has taken ahold of him. He’s there before he’s even moved and Pym holds up her hand.

“We fight our own battles,” the Red Spear spits at her.

“I don’t stab people.”

“You brought that thing on my ship,” the Red Spear snarls, “he could have burned us all,” she looks her up and down. Pym braces herself, “never again,” she says and pulls out a knife that Lancelot remembers being pressed against his throat, “I see you without it and I’ll gut you myself,” she says to Pym. She turns on Lancelot, “No-one on my crew owes you a debt for bringing our healer back safely. Not after this. And you’re not welcome on my ship until I see you control that damned Fire.”

Pym watches her walk back to Arthur. The blood from her split lip trickles down her chin. But she’s undeterred. Behind her Squirrel is still half hidden in her cloak. She’s had him plug his ears and hide his eyes and for once he seems to have listened. Lancelot opens his mouth, not sure if it’s to apologize or be sick or maybe it’s to scream, but nothing comes out. Not at first.

“I didn’t know,” he says finally, it sounds like a paltry excuses. Pym looks up at him for a moment and Lancelot doesn’t know why he’s desperate to explain his ignorance to the one person least capable of doing him any bodily harm.

“I believe you,” Pym says. She finally lets Squirrel go to touch her lip, wincing as she does. 

“Finally!” Squirrel says, everyone turning to look at him. He immediately senses something is wrong. Lancelot holds him back before he can move in front of him but Nimue’s eyes narrow, “what happened?”

“Merlin knew,” he says simply.

“Oh,” Squirrel says, “well he didn’t break any code because we know about each other’s powers,” he adds, “so—“ he claps a hand over the boy’s mouth. Enough secrets have been shared, enough loyalties tested. Squirrel pulls his hand down “hey!”

“Not tonight.”

“Don’t order him,” Nimue says. His eyes snap to her. Defiance is written all over her and even though he’s taller, she draws herself up. With her it works. She wears her authority like the Queen Mother did, like her simpering son always tried to. But he’s spent his life surrounded by men who believe that they are God’s Chosen. “Squirrel come here.”

“No,” he says, finally pushing himself free. Lancelot grabs his arm again, “of course he wouldn’t tell you. No-one’s given him a chance. I wouldn’t tell you any of my secrets either. I thought all Fey were brothers.”

“Squirrel that’s not fair.”

“Nothing’s fair!” He says, “and you don’t have to give him a chance but then why would he say anything? The only people he told are me and Pym. I knew he was good after he saved my life but Pym’s the only one whose treated him like you all said Fey should treat each other,” he looks at all of them, “I’m not going with you. I’d rather stay here.”

It’s an impressive speech. Lancelot looks down to see that one of Gawain’s vines has sprung up, but it’s not wrapped around the boy’s wrist. It’s just there for him to grasp, as though he can draw strength from whatever it is that Gawain has become. He looks at the Knight and something peaceful and proud settles on his face. When the vine falls away, Squirrel doesn’t react but Lancelot finds himself replacing it with his own hand.

“I need a bucket,” Pym says, “and those shackles.”

“Why the bucket?” Nimue asks.

“To heal him,” Pym says.

“No. You can have the shackles. He’s not healing until we know what’s going on. None of his injuries are life threatening.”

Pym’s throat bobs. But she seems to realize some kind of compromise must be made. She nods finally. He pulls on the gloves and takes the shackles before she can. He makes sure the Guard’s wrists are covered and fits one with the shackle. He lines up and snaps their arm back into place before putting the other on. Merlin waves his hand and stones pile up and form something approximating a house.

“We have a few hours till dawn. Might as well get out of it what we can.”

The Guard don’t have individualism. There’s no names among them. ‘It’ would be the most proper way to describe the Ash Folk. Lancelot has to remind himself that this is not the reason he wants to run Merlin through. Nimue steps forward.

“We can’t all be here,” she says, “The rest of you go back to Kaze. Merlin, Morgana, Pym and myself will hear what this one has to say.”

“No,” Lancelot says.

“I didn’t ask you,” Nimue snaps, “we need to know what is going on. For all of us. You and your grudge match will have to wait.”

“We’re from the same Folk,” he says. Even though the Ash Folk is limp over his horse because of him. His throat tastes of bile as he looks at her, “please.”

She wavers for a moment but resolve hardens her features and she looks up at him.

“No,” she says, “the safety of everyone comes first. Merlin make them somewhere to sit. Morgana can you please—?”

Morgana nods and both she and the Guard vanish. Merlin goes in after her and Nimue stands by the door. Pym looks at him but he only nods. If anyone but him had to be there, she is the best bet at the Ash Folk making it out of there. She looks at him one final time and then Nimue clears her throat and Pym hurries inside. Nimue goes in last and Merlin banishes the door, as though it was never there. Lancelot tastes sour and feels almost weak as he sits down on the stone.

“I’m sorry he told your secret,” Squirrel says.

“As am I,” Lancelot agrees, “what you did was brave.”

“I just did what a Knight’s supposed to do,” Squirrel says, “if the Trinity Guard is supposed to be so scary, why do they keep losing to you?”

“I’m scarier,” he says.

“No you’re not,” Squirrel says, “I think you’re just a better fighter.”

“That too,” Lancelot says, ““You can go back,” he offers.

Squirrel considers for a moment

“I’d rather stay here with you.”

Lancelot nods and moves over so Squirrel can sit next to him.


	29. Chapter 29

How could she not have seen that Merlin would know?

Pym wonders how she thought a seven hundred year old druid who had forged the sword himself using Fey Fire wouldn’t have known where it came from. Or maybe she did know and she had just, on some level, chosen to keep the secret. She was not expecting Merlin to drunkenly say it though. Not like that. She has to fight the urge to prod at her lip. That’s another thing she wasn’t expecting. But it’s the Raider’s language. The knife that’s been given to her feels heavy. The idea of stabbing someone with it feels wrong. It shouldn’t be something she has to worry about but she’s in a doorless room with three of the most powerful people she’s ever seen. And one who she may have spit on, kicked in the face or left to die in an exploding tree quite recently.

Lancelot’s beads feel heavy in her pocket.

They’re already broken, she doubts a Fey touching them renders them invalid. She knows she got all of them before Merlin dropped a house on the patch of dirt. How Merlin has made this night so terrible, she’ll never understand. Though some of the guilt surely lies with her. But so much of her world is grey, keeping a friend’s secret doesn’t feel wrong. This doesn’t feel wrong. No more than not telling Squirrel’s secret doesn’t feel wrong. Though Squirrel is young, she’s known him his entire life. But keeping both of them safe has become, oddly, equally important.

The Guard stirs.

For a moment the pain is clear, but the next instant they turn their face into their hood. Unfortunately that pulls their shoulder and they have no choice but to look ahead. Breathing hard. It’s the mask, Pym realizes. This Fey is used to hiding everything behind the impassive gold face.

“You’re very good,” Nimue says, “but you came alone. That’s not how the Guard operates.” Their prisoner presses their lips together, “you’ve attacked and failed enough for us to have some idea of how you work. We’re guessing you’re a scout for the others, our Ash Fey has told us all about your Folk’s abilities.”

The lie makes Pym’s gut twist, but it’s a clever trick. The Ash Fry’s entire demeanor changes to something much angrier. The shoulder they can move tenses, their entire body seems to straighten and they look down at the ground for a moment before raising their black rimmed eyes. It’s like looking at a warped version of Lancelot. She can see the training written all over this Fey, but there’s a speed to their reactions Lancelot doesn’t show. They aren’t fighting them. They still believe.

“You’re not here as a Guard, are you?” All of them focus on her and Pym realizes that she was not supposed to speak. Their prisoner’s eyes narrow in recognition, “you’re not here because I escaped either.”

“Clearly she’s here for Lancelot,” Morgana says, “Is it because he’s betrayed your Fey Folk or the Church?”

Pym looks at Nimue. The hood, the cloak, all of it makes it difficult to discern anything about the Guard. But Morgana sees it. Though she has never seen a female Paladin, Pym remembers Iris. Remembers her dying. But she was a member of the Guard. The particulars of what it takes to be a Paladin aren’t something she’s ever asked Lancelot about. The Guard even reacts to the attention drawn to her, a scowl painting across her face.

“I’m here for you as well,” she says finally, raising her head to Morgana.

Morgana folds her arms and a moment later she’s in front of them, veil in place. Even though she’s seen it, Pym still feels her heard jump. Ignoring the pain, the Guard shoves herself back and her face contorts in some combination of disgust and fear.

“You’re a little late for that,” Morgana says.

The violent backwards movement dislodges her hood. Her features are more feminine, but Pym focuses on the markings. They’re bigger than Lancelot’s, covering more of the skin under her eyes and fanning out towards the corners. Pym thinks of endless nights and days with her mother in front of the fire, how it makes sense that the women need to reflect more of the glare . Morgana steps back without magicand the Guard’s scowl darkens.

“Enough theatrics,” Merlin says walking forward.

He produces yet another goblet, which makes Nimue glare. Only this one is filled with dirt that wipes the glare off of the Guard’s face. Merlin dribbles it onto the ground at her feet and the Guard looks at it suspiciously. Merlin waves a hand over it and the dirt pile trembles and begins to duplicate, rising in on itself until it’s a mound that comes up high on her chest. Merlin looks at her and grins before snapping his fingers. A sapling pushes up from the ground, growing upwards and sprouting branches and twisting, unfurling until it’s a massive tree, with several of the branches barely a breath from the Guard’s nose. Nimue moves closer and Pym steps over towards her. Out of all of them, she’s very aware that she’s most likely to cook.

“Merlin,” Nimue says, a warning in her tone.

Merlin waves her off and the branches reach for the Guard. When she pushes herself back, they sprout behind her and reach for her that way.

“You made an oven,” she snaps, “you’ll die.”

“I’ve died before, it never seems to stick,” Merlin says.

“I’ll be fine,” she spits back at him.

“But your fire will have killed an innocent Fey,” he says, looking back at Pym. Pym opens her mouth to refute that but if embarrassing her can get the Guard to cooperate, she can handle it, “isn’t there something in your book about not murdering a brother?”

“These are not my brothers,” she spits.

“So why not use the Fire to kill them?” He asks. The Guard’s head snaps up and away, “your brothers are looking for you. What do you think the Pope’s going to say when he sees what you can do?”

“Your idiot of an Ash Man has already shown what I can do,” she spits back at him.

“And what did the Pope say?”

She shuts her mouth and looks away.

“Look at the back of her head,” Pym whispers to Morgana. Morgana raises an eyebrow, “she was trying to cut Lancelot’s scalp.”

Morgana appears behind her and pushes her head forward. The Guard jerks, either from contact or pain or in an effort to avoid the branches. Morgana parts her hair and looks at her scalp.

“The Cross is still here,” she pulls back the neck of the robes, “these are deep. You haven’t been excommunicated. Yet,” Morgana looks at her eyes, “so if you bring them Lancelot, you get to stay. Why not send help?” She clenches her jaw.

“Probably to blow us up,” Merlin says and looks at Morgana, “this is why you should keep practicing without the veil,” he looks at the Guard, “you should have spent more time out of the mask.”

The branches tremble and Pym fights the urge to stay silent. For as long as she possibly can. But just standing here watching someone be tortured makes her skin crawl. She remembers what it was like to be helpless and at the mercy of the Raiders and the Paladins. Even if this is one of the Guards who tried to kill her, she’s not Raider enough yet to enjoy this.

“So she’s here to blow us up or murder at least Morgana and Lancelot—“ Morgana’s eyes narrow, “not that she could,” Pym adds, “what’s the point of torturing her further?”

“More information,” Merlin says.

“Not like that,” Pym says. They all look at her blankly, “if you upset her enough she’s going to burn us all down even without that tree,” no-one reacts with any understanding and Pym feels her frustration boil over, “have you ever _seen_ an untrained Ash Folk make Fey Fire?” Merlin shakes his head, “well I have and I’m in no rush for a repeat performance.”

Nimue looks at her sharply and Pym meets her gaze. Everyone’s eyes trickle over to her. Pym knows her voice doesn’t matter against the immortals and the rarest of Fey and the most powerful. But she hopes that the girl she grew up with, the one she was best friends with, can find it in herself to trust her. Just once more. Nimue opens and closes her mouth and then looks at Merlin.

“She’s right, put the tree away. We don’t need this being an oven,” Merlin hesitates, “now,” Nimue adds.

Merlin banishes the tree and waves a door into the front of the hovel without being further asked. Even if it’s to let those who cannot vanish at will out, the moment the door opens Lancelot and Squirrel are standing there. Lancelot inspects her quickly and she nods to show she’s fine before his eyes move over to the Guard. A sneer twists her face at the sight of him. Lancelot’s features become smooth and impassive, but his eyes get the hungry look in them that Pym is used to seeing after he smells new magic. He hesitates at the doorway before walking fully inside and looking down at the restrained Fey.

“They told me no-one survived,” he says.

Pym winces and privately thinks the Paladins say that more than it’s actually true. But she can also see how a boy would believe it. A smirk twists the Guard’s lips but her mouth remains shut. Lancelot stares at her and falls silent as well. She sees Squirrel try to move and Lancelot catches his shoulder blindly, pushing him back. Nimue moves forward and steps out, taking Squirrel with her past the threshold, despite his squirming.

“Do you have a name?” Pym asks because someone has to say something. The Ash Fey is silent. Morgana coalesces behind her and taps her shoulder, lifting the corner of her veil. There’s something not human peaking out, “Morgana—“

“Tristain,” she says, looking at Lancelot, “my name is Tristain.”

No recognition flares on his face, but no further frustration shows on hers. They just look at each other, somehow both radiating disappointment and regret. Tristain also radiates the desire to see them all dead, but Pym’s come to realize that is just how the Church seems to function. After a moment Nimue walks back inside and looks between them all.

“Kill me and get it over with,” Tristain snaps, glaring at her.

“All Fey are brothers,” Nimue says, walking over to her, “even the lost ones.”

Lancelot’s eyes widen as Nimue touches her forehead and Tristain slumps forward. Nimue comes over to them and looks at Pym.

“How do we move her?” She says, “if we run into trouble we can use her.”

Gawain makes a noise of disgust and annoyance flashes in Nimue’s eyes. She looks over at him and Gawain bows his head in submission. He may be something beyond the living, but Pym is aware that the rest of them are very much alive. And there’s a few days ride between them and their destination.

“Morgana transporting her could be safest,” Pym says.

“I can’t move people,” Morgana says, “not without killing them,” something nervous sparks in her eyes, making her look far more human than she has since Pym saw her, “I think.”

“Not without killing them,” Merlin agrees, “no touching trees.”

“Nothing green, nothing living,” Lancelot speaks suddenly, “if you wrap her in the cloak and keep her unconscious, it should be enough.”

That seems like a satisfactory answer. Nimue looks at her and nods towards the door. Pym knows Lancelot will stand there all night if given the chance, though given what she’s seen of everything she thinks, grudgingly, that Merlin might have a point. Two Ash Folk with limited control is not a good idea. She has yet to see anyone make it through the iron, but from the destruction she’s seen she imagines it’s very possible. Lancelot’s still got dry blood on him and his hair is unbound, Tristain’s shoulders slant at an unnatural angle.

“She’ll be alright,” she says to Lancelot, “I need to look at the cut on your head.”

“I’m fine,” he says.

“Lancelot,” she puts her hand over his wrist. He stiffens slightly at the contact. It’s barely noticeable but at the same time it’s a big reaction for him. The tension echoes across him, “we’ll just go outside.”

He hesitates for a moment and then dips his head, pulling away from her touch to step outside. Nimue nods at her and she takes a deep breath and moves after him. He’s barely walked a few steps before he sits down. He’s still chillingly graceful, but there’s a heaviness to his movements that Pym’s never seen before. Out of the corner of he eye she sees Squirrel walk forward. She wants to grab him back and protect him from whatever Lancelot is about to do. But when Squirrel looks at her, he’s the one who tries to fake a smile and fails.

He’s seen this before, she realizes.

She drops the hand that’s about to reach for him and watches as he walks over to Lancelot and sits next to him. He doesn’t say anything he just puts his chin in his hand, picks up a previously discarded stick and starts to draw in the dirt. He’s not close enough for Lancelot to have to suffer physical contact or still enough that he has to talk, but just close enough that he knows he’s not alone. Pym itches to go and get her bag or water, to do something to fix the one thing she thinks she can.

But instead she walks over to Lancelot’s other side and sits down.


	30. Chapter 30

He’s forgotten how to speak.

He jerks awake. It takes a moment for him to judge it’s been a few hours. He’s sure that he’s opened his mouth to scream but no sound comes out. It’s just the short pants of his own horror. He doesn’t remember the dream but he knows that is only because he’s trained himself to cast it aside. The same way he trained himself not to scream. His mind is trained, just as the rest of him is. He pushes his hand through his hair and realizes that it’s unbound. His scalp and forehead are caked with dried blood. He looks around and takes in the stone structure holding the other Ash Fey. Squirrel is curled up next to him in what has become a familiar sleeping position. On the other side—he realizes there’s nothing. He’s almost afraid to try and find any scent, afraid if he breathes to deeply the smell of another Ash Folk will make him lose control. He focuses and pushes everything else out of his mind, finding just Pym’s scent and locking in on it.

It’s close.

He stays nearby, it’s bad enough that she was taken. Squirrel suffering the same fate again isn’t something he’s willing to entertain. The Paladins don’t know how to have prisoners, not for any length of time. But the two of them are spectacularly bad at being anything he could reason them keeping alive. Squirrel was dead the moment he spat in Father’s face and Pym has apparently taken to kicking people. He needs to keep them both close for many reasons. Pym is just around the bend of the room. He’s careful to keep to the stone though. She’s sitting in front of Goliath with his chanfron in her lap. She bites off the threat and sets a bone needle aside. He watches as the blue green vines appear up her neck and fan over her cheek as she tightens the stitches and pulls the loose strips of leather into a tight patch to cover his missing eye.

“Alright lets try this on,” she says, putting it back in place. She tugs the reins and walks forward. Goliath follows obediently, “that’s better. Now we won’t have to worry as much about your bandages.”

It feels wrong to stand there and observe so he moves forward, making his presence known. Pym turns and looks at him. Not with pity or fear or anything. She leads Goliath back over. Goliath comes to him and lips at his hand before dropping his head to graze.

“I think he’s upset you don’t have apples,” Pym says.

“You’ve spoiled him,” he replies.

“He’s a good horse,” she retorts.

“Thank you for fixing this,” he says.

“Oh you’re welcome. I tried to match the leather, that was the closest I could.”

He nods his thanks. It’s scraps but it will keep Goliath safe. That’s the only thing that truly matters. Appearance was always just something that could be used as another tool, not the most important thing. Though the leather is a close match. Not studded but embossed. It probably belonged to the Church or Cumber at one point before getting taken in a raid. He drags his eyes back to her split lip. The injuries are minor, relatively speaking. At the very least they are all alive. But they weigh on him. They sting of his failure. Of his cowardice. It feels more like when he was a boy than he ever wanted to feel again.

“Don’t poke it with your tongue, you’ll only make it worse.”

Pym stops what she’s doing and looks at him suspiciously. Lancelot returns the look. He’s broken his lip open more times than he cares to remember. It’s an obvious mark, not the kind that is bad enough to risk healing himself. Too many questions would follow. But he knows the temptation of prodding the half opened cut. Even if is the opposite of what will help it heal.

  
“The second I think about it that’s all I want to do,” she admits. He nods and she looks down at her fingers, “it’s the first time I’ve had it.”

“You should see Nimue,” he says.

“She doesn’t need to heal this,” Pym says, “it’s more annoying than anything else,” she goes to prod it with her tongue and stops herself, “can I check your scalp? I want to make sure the hair isn’t stuck.”

He nods and lowers himself onto the stone, folding his legs. Pym peers at the back of his head. He hears her sigh. When she got the leather she apparently go other things. She appears with a waterskin.

“Tip your head down,” she says, “your hair’s completely matted and stuck.”

He dips his head forward and lets her douse his head with cold water. Whatever vestiges of sleep still cling to him vanish as the cold bites into him and stings over his scap. From what he can tell it’s longer than he initially thought. But the wound is relatively minor and such things are rarely a focus in the middle of a fight. Pym pushes his hair forward to get a better look and the brown tresses flop in front of his eyes, completely obscuring his vision.

“It’s through your—“ she stops herself, “it’s through the cross.”

“Tonsure,” he says, “that’s what it’s called.”

“Right because Saint Peter had hair like this,” Pym says, “you never told us the story.”

He realizes she’s right. It seemed like a strange thing to say at the time, to offer it like that to two who didn’t have any reason to care about such a story. All the talk of saving souls and being told that the Fey wouldn’t listen to such things. But two had asked about it, even though they had no reason to care. The water stings against the cut. Pym makes sure all of his hair is out of it. It feels almost wrong to have her fingertips so near the scar. He knows it should be something he moves away from, but some perverse curiosity keeps him sitting there.

  
“Did this hurt?” Pym asks finally, “sorry, is that a rude question? You don’t have to answer that.”

“Pain isn’t always a bad thing,” he says, “the suffering can cleanse you.”

“Water gets you clean,” Pym replies, “suffering just hurts.”

“Not for the Soul.”

“Are you sure?” He glances to the side but cannot see her, “it seems like less killing would keep your soul a lot cleaner.”

“We’re born with sin,” he parrots the long spoken phrase.

The familiar guilt follows.

Original sin is a tenant of the faith. No one is clean until they repent for it. The Fey refusing to undergo the rite has always been used to justify why they must be cleansed. He remembers his own rite well. How even as Father Carden put him under the water, some part of him wished to be held down and never let back up. How in all the years that followed, the idea that children were full of sin and needed to be cleansed never made sense to him. It was a weakness, Father had always said. One that Father allowed but one that condemned him none the less.

His back itches and aches.

“That’s what I was taught,” he admits finally.

“But you didn’t believe it,” Pym says.

“No,” he says, but the familiar guilt that follows at disagreeing is absent. Or maybe it’s just the lack of punishment that follows, “I wouldn’t hurt the little ones.”

Pym is quiet. He remembers Gawain refuting the statement, pointing out what he had always known but had been easier to deny. After all, he had watched his own parents burn but he had been saved. When he thinks about it now it makes his stomach roll but for so many years he was able not to. Not to think about it, not to remember it. The sight of another Ash Fey though, the smell of them, they seem to dig deep into his memories and bring them up. As if everything is connected to that scent. He’s terrified that might be the case.

He’s not expecting Pym to put her hand on his shoulder.

It’s a small, meaningless thing but if anyone could hear what he is trying to say, he imagines it would be her. She doesn’t say that she forgives him or anything like that, he wouldn’t expect her to. But there’s something like an understanding in her touch. Or maybe it’s just the newness of trying to explain himself without the understanding that pain is guaranteed to follow. He still tenses for it, his body prepares for it. In some ways it aches for it. But his mind has started to understand that it is not inevitable. It remains to be seen if that is a sign of salvation or the promised, continued, abandonment.

“It was usually children who escaped,” she offers.

He thinks about Bors.

“Can I ask you something?”

She’s silent before seeming to remember that she’s behind him.

“Sure, what is it?”

“Was I ever used as a threat for children not doing their chores?” He knows it’s a ridiculous thing to be curious about, it’s something he’s pushed to the back of his head since the stampede. “When you were taken, they caused a stampede. The boy from earlier was there. To get him to listen I said I would only come for children who didn’t do as I said, it seemed like that wasn’t the first time he heard those words.”

Pym makes a soft sound that he thinks could be a sob, but when he turns and pushes his hair up, it’s the opposite sound.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “I didn’t think it needed saying—“ she tries to compose herself, “it’s not used that often.”

Being used as a threat in such a benign way is a strange thing for him. He had guessed at something to that effect when he first took Squirrel and the boy immediately knew who he was. Not a whispered secret like he was usually referred to by the adult Fey. Squirrel is uniquely brave but the speed at which Bors had responded told him it was not the first time. It’s odd to have that confirmed. Pym wipes her fingers on a rag and scoops up some handful of grass and dirt, putting it on the stone. He presses his hand to it and feels the skin seal together. Though he knows there isn’t a point, he reaches back and touches his scalp. The familiar lines have been fused together into a shape that’s less a cross and more two v’s pointing at each other. The fuzz that has started to push through his scalp will grow where he’s healed himself, there’s no scar tissue.

“Your hair’s starting to grow in,” Pym says unnecessarily, “are you going to keep it like that?”

“I can’t,” he says, sitting back on his heels. She looks at him curiously, “I’ve forsaken my vows by becoming a squire.”

She doesn’t say anything to that and perhaps there is nothing that can be said. He thought he had forsaken his kinship with the Fey when he had taken his Vows. Some part of him is perversely glad that Father is not here to see him break them. But he cannot be in two Brotherhoods, not these brotherhoods anyway. Not when they are against each other. Joining the Paladins felt as though he was moving closer to God. Joining the Fey feels as though it should be moving away from Him. Lancelot realizes everything has been stripped away from him piece by piece. Goliath is the only thing that truly remains.

And yet for all that he should feel himself moving from God, there’s a quiet in his soul he’s not sure he’s ever felt. If that is the Devil playing tricks, it’s a good one. But something tells him it is not. It feels too right to be anything so sinister. Like surfacing for air after spending minutes drowning. The first breath always hurts, the ones that follow are easier. Sweeter.

“So how does it feel?” Pym asks, “not being a monk?”

“I’m not sure,” he admits.

“So not unbearable,” Pym says.

Lancelot shakes his head.

“Not unbearable,” he agrees.


	31. Chapter 31

“It’s nice to see you riding,” Nimue says.

Squirrel’s been convinced to go ride in one of the wagons with the children. Only being tired from spending the previous night on the stone makes him agree. And even then he still looks upset at the idea. The blonde horse doesn’t have Goliath’s steadiness, but Pym finds she’s managing alright. Goliath is less disoriented than she would have thought, but she thinks that has to do with how well trained he is. He’s good at following commands.

“You have no idea how much I regret turning you down for those lessons,” she says, “to be fair I never thought my life would involve so much riding. Or fighting.”

Nimue smiles sympathetically. Her life was always going to include a lot of it, after all she was destined to be the Summoner. Everyone knew it before the Fallen had even made their choice clear. They’ve all had to adjust to this new world they live in, but Pym knows Nimue has some preparation. At the very least, she knows how to adjust to it. Pym still feels as though she spends her entire time flailing around, hoping that she lands in a softer place than the waves that will drown her.

“You’ll learn,” Kaze says, and though she’s unsympathetic Pym knows that the fact she’s not completely disgusted speaks of a little faith, “or you’ll hide on the isle with the rest of them.”

“Are you not going to the isle?” Pym asks.

Kaze shrugs. Nimue looks away. Pym feels the tension in the air. Getting kidnapped, dealing with the new Ash Fey, all of it has pushed her own sickness at the thought of hiding away to the back of her head. But riding with the two of them, it comes back. Churning in her stomach.

“I don’t want to go hide there either,” she admits. Nimue looks surprised. But Kaze leans forward.

“Have you got a taste for adventure?” she asks.

“I don’t—“ Pym starts and then gives up the pretense, “I think so,” she admits. Kaze grins. Pym looks at Nimue, “I don’t know. I just—I don’t think I belong hiding on the isle. Not after seeing the world.”

Nimue looks torn between disappointment and pride. But she seems to settle on the latter. Kaze grins again, showing her teeth. But the grin softens and there’s something understanding in her gaze.

“Seeing the world will always make it hard to go home, no matter how lucky you are to have one,” she says, “some people are meant for certain things.”

“Oh I’m not meant for anything,” Pym says with a laugh. Nimue and Kaze trade looks, “the last time someone said I was meant for something, he was trying to marry me and make me spend the rest of my life cleaning fish guts off the docks.”

It’s a simplification but it gets the point across. Neither of them judges her for not wanting that. They trade another look and then Nimue makes a face of disgust and Kaze echoes it with an eye roll.

“Don’t listen to men,” they both say and Pym is inclined to agree.

They pause briefly to give people a chance to eat and those who are not used to riding a chance to stretch their legs. For the first time Pym feels a glimmer of annoyance at having to stop. It’s an odd thing considering quite recently she was one of the people who would need it. She pushes the annoyance away and focuses on the memory of how recently she was like that to find sympathy. She checks to make sure Tristain is still out, the iron still on her wrists. Then she checks to make sure Goliath is alright.

“Is the horse behaving?” Lancelot asks.

“He’s doing well,” Pym says, “how’s Goliath?”  
  
“Adjusting,” Lancelot tells her.

It’s a brief conversation before Gawain summons him to discuss something. Lancelot seems to be more relaxed around him than he is around any other, though Squirrel is close. Squirrel waves at her and then goes over to the two of them. Wisely, they don’t tell him to go away and Pym just hopes that whatever they are talking about doesn’t give him nightmares. Even though a part of her wants to go over to them, the rest of her craves the familiarity of Nimue and the company of Kaze and Guinevere. Though the latter is keeping to herself.

“We’re going to move out,” Nimue says. Pym nods and looks around. Nimue touches her arm, “what is it?”

It’s embarrassing to admit she’s not gotten onto the horse herself. She most used to Lancelot or Nimue helping her up. It’s on her tongue to deny there’s anything wrong, but despite the awe inspiring thing Nimue has become, she’s still the friend that Pym grew up with.

“I need help getting on the horse,” Pym admits finally.

“Not for long,” Nimue says, grabbing her hand, “come, I’ll teach you.”

Pym smiles and nods, following as Nimue takes them to the horses. She holds the reins and motions Pymp to the side, holding out the stirrup.

“Here,” Nimue says, “put your foot there. And your hands here,” she says, pointing to the saddle. Pym grasps the leather, “now pull yourself up.”

“That’s the part that gets me,” Pym says.

“Come on, count of three,” Nimue says, like they’re girls again about to jump into the lake on wash day, “one, two, three!”

Just like on wash day, Pym heaves herself forward and manages to get her leg over the saddle. The horse snorts but she shoves her foot into the stirrup and grabs the reins. Besides she knows Nimue is there to make sure the horse doesn’t just run off. An excited laugh escapes her lips at the self sufficiency and Nimue beams up at her. She and Kaze mount far more gracefully, but Pym feels pride anyways. Just for getting herself up into the saddle.

The minor victory feels significant. Or maybe it’s the admission of her feelings and the immediate acceptance of them. Or maybe it’s just the familiarity of riding with Nimue, even if it’s strange to be on a different mount. But either way when they make camp for the night she feels stronger somehow. Like she’s slept well which is something that definitely has not happened in a long time. So well that when everything is settled, she gathers up her bag because this has gone on long enough and heads to the stones. Someone has to deal with Tristain’s injuries. And it doesn’t seem as though it’s going to be anyone else. She’s not the best healer, but as she told Arthur that first day, she’s better than no healer. The others are in there with Tristain but she can do something. But right as she reaches the stones, the door appears and slams open.

Lancelot storms out.

If there was another door, Pym thinks he’d break it. Or burn it. He’s furious. She’s not sure she’s ever seen him angry like this. Whatever has happened between him and Tristain he looks as though he’s going to do something stupid. The last time she saw him crippled by his emotions, it ended with him being stabbed. She has her knife on her, but that isn’t an experience she’s anxious to repeat. She’s also not terribly anxious to go after someone who could very easily reduce them all to fine white ash. But the alternative involves stabbing and she’s not Raider enough to want that yet, so she goes.

“Lancelot, hold on—“

“Stay there,” he says.

“No,” she retorts, “you’re about to—“ she hesitates and remembers that everyone already knows. Lancelot quickens his pace, “stop heading towards the forest!”

He makes a sound and keeps walking towards it. Pym wishes that she could trust he would be alright like she could trust he would come after her or that he would protect Squirrel. But he seems to be one of those utterly infuriating types who cares more about others skin than his own. She touches his arm and he spins so quickly that she nearly trips over her own feet. She’s not sure if touching him was the right or wrong thing to do, but green sparks around his fingers quicker than she’s seen before.

Her hand automatically goes for her knife and she looks away, but he doesn’t seem as in shock as the first time she saw him do this. The anger is written plain on his face, but frustration also fills his features. She knows he doesn’t understand what is happening anymore than she does. The easiest thing would be to physically hurt him, as Father Carden seems to have orchestrated everything to do. But that isn’t a good way to live. Lancelot turns as though there might be answers somewhere. She realizes that though the fire is still blinding, it’s not nearly as bad as it was. Maybe because there’s less of it, or there’s just the fire and not the fuel.

Out of the corner of her eye she sees movement.

“No!” She grabs Squirrel.

“I can help him, no-one can see,” Squirrel protests but she holds him tightly.

“You’re right, no-one can see. And you can help him. But he has to try first,” she says. Squirrel looks up at her like she’s lost her mind and maybe she has. Actually she’s fairly certain she has. But she just tightens her arms around the boy and looks Lancelot in the eye, “just try.”

“I don’t know how,” Lancelot says through gritted teeth.

“It’s like when you’re hungry and you eat,” Squirrel says, “and then you’re full and so you stop before you get sick. You have to focus on that full feeling. When you don’t need to eat anymore.”

Lancelot looks at him blankly and Pym wonders if he’s ever managed to eat his fill. No bodily pleasures. Lancelot doesn’t even remember his own bread. She tries to think of something comparable and her stomach gives an unfortunately flip. But not as badly as it flips when the flames start to curl around his wrists and up his arms.

“Pray,” she says. They both look at her, “I’ve seen what your brethren eat, the fullness metaphor isn’t going to work. Try praying. You know how you feel after that.”

He stares at them both blankly and Pym wonders if he can even hear them. The marks under his eyes start to take on a greenish sheen, reflecting the fire as it gets closer. If it goes to his shirt or his cloak, she doesn’t know what will happen. He rips his eyes from them and turns his head. She sees lips move silently and she sees the fire slow. It stops spreading and trembles, but if she had to bet on anything putting up a fight against the legendary Fire, Lancelot’s faith is probably it. The fire seems to tremble again and then like watching it grow in reverse, it slides back around his hands and winks out.

“No way,” Squirrel says, “see, it worked!”

He shrugs her off and closes the distance with Lancelot. Pym itches to grab him back but simultaneously feels as though it actually worked. The frustration is still plain on Lancelot’s face, as is the anger. But it’s tempered. At the very least there’s no legendary Fire being created because of it. That’s something. It’s one way that keeps them all safer. And it doesn’t include anyone getting stabbed. They’re words, she has to remind herself. There is a difference between saying them and doing what the Paladins did. Surely if he prays quietly it’s not the end of the world. It’s better than being burned alive.

“That was clever,” Gawain says, nearly scaring her out of her skin.

Pym turns and looks at the Knight. At what he’s become. She’s seen him of course, but not alone. Not like this. It’s hard to see one of her friends having become what he’s turn into. To still see glimmers of who he was, mixed in with everything else. Only the acceptance in his gaze makes her not want to pull her hair out in anguish. He doesn’t look at Lancelot with fear or anger or disgust. He doesn’t look at anything with it. But in the case of Lancelot, there’s something much closer to the pride that she sees when he looks at Squirrel. It’s odd to think that those things she feels so strongly might go away with death, replaced by something better. Or maybe if the same was to happen to her, she would only be able to feel the bad things.

“I’ve just seen him do it before,” she dismisses, “it’s being observant. There’s nothing clever about it.”

He gives her the faintest smile and looks at Squirrel and Lancelot.

“I saw as well,” he says, “though you were always the most observant of us.”

“Saw what?” She asks, unable to help herself.

“That he could be one of us,” Gawain explains, “that he did not believe as much as he claimed.”

Pym falters. She’s not sure if she truly saw that or if Squirrel just convinced her to at least try. It was probably the latter. The more time Lancelot spends among his kind, the more she sees everything he’s pushed down fighting to come back to life. She would say that it was pushed down far, but the more he learns to speak the more she thinks he just learned how to hide it well.

  
“It doesn’t change what he’s done,” she says. Gawain looks at her, “he still murdered all those Fey and burned down our homes—you would still be alive if he hadn’t taken you.”

Gawain is quiet for a moment. How something like what he is gives her words any weight is baffling. But he considers them.

“I told him to go back to his people after he had taken me,” Gawain says, “when I was more dead than alive. I could not have reached him without being taken,” he looks back at the pair of them, “and because of that Squirrel is alive.”

“You would have saved Squirrel,” she corrects.

Gawain nods.

“I would have,” Gawain says, “but he may still grow to fear the Paladins and the world of men. Now, I don’t think he will.”

Pym knows he’s right but it’s a very strange thing to think. That there is good in what happened. Real good, not just the salvaging of a terrible situation. Gawain has no reason to lie to her. He seems at peace, or beyond the need for her understanding of peace.

“How did you forgive him for—for any of it?” She asks and then reconsiders, “did you forgive him?”

“I am a Knight,” he says, “I uphold our code,” he looks briefly pained, as though remembering something, “no-one looked for survivors in the beginning. Not of the Ash Folk.”

Pym has heard stories but nothing like what he speaks about. The Ash Folk were legends even as she grew. They were a Folk who had turned their backs on the rest of them, retreated to another land. She also knows as the Paladins made their way up the coast, all the Folk tried to separate and hide on their own. But she knows that Gawain was among the first to refuse, to argue that they should all stand together and not be independent from one another. Not when they could help.

“You had nothing to do with that,” Pym says.

“I am a part of that legacy,” Gawain says, “as are all Knights. The good and the bad,” he looks at her, “I saw what happened to those who were lost. To those we chose not to come for. We thought it was safer,” he looks sad, “cowardice is never safe.”

Pym is silent for a moment.

“He’s not your fault,” she says.

“No,” Gawain agrees, “he is not. It wouldn’t be my fault if Squirrel had passed onto the twilight or if you had joined him when the Paladins took you,” Pym winces, even though she agrees, “it would not be anyone’s fault but the Paladins. But you both saw differently. You acted differently. And you are still here. I cannot be anything but glad for that.”

“Squirrel saw,” Pym corrects, “I didn’t.”

“I wonder how much he learned from your acceptance of Nimue,” he says.

Pym sighs. All the little ones were afraid of Nimue. How could they not be with how their parents spoke of her? Squirrel had been the bravest, he had just needed to see someone his parents spoke well of being friends with her.

“I just encouraged him. He would have figured that out on his own as well,” she says.

“He would probably say the same of you,” Gawain muses.

Pym shakes her head.

“Squirrel still accepts him more,” she admits finally, “he’s the one who thinks like you do. I try but it’s not the same.”

It hurts to admit it aloud, even though she’s told it to Lancelot. But Gawain is the best of them, he always has been. A Knight good enough to be accepting of man and Fey. To reach out to those who would not accept it and bring them to a better place. If anyone had to make Squirrel a Knight, she is glad it was Gawain. He looks at her as though searching for some indication she’s lying. He must see that she’s not because the piercing look leaves his face and he nods his head. Pym relaxes, though her gladness that he’s let go of his teasing and insistence on being right is somewhat tempered by missing it. But it’s another thing he has no use for.

“You should teach them about your Code,” she says.

“I will.”

She nods and folds her arms, watching the two of them. She nods at Gawain to excuse herself to go over there.

“Pym,” she turns to her old friend, “you missed one when you picked the others up,” he says and tosses her one of the beads.

Heat foods her face but when she raises her head to defend herself Gawain simply winks and walks off to Nimue and the others. Pym takes a deep breath and repeats herself in her own head. How this means nothing. How things are still complicated and difficult.

Then she shoves the bead into her pocket and walks over to Lancelot and Squirrel.


	32. Chapter 32

He joins Arthur on watch.

Or rather, after they make camp and he succeeds in shutting off the Fire, Arthur finds him and says that they are on watch together. Lancelot agrees and sees Pym and Squirrel to camp with the others. Arthur hands him a bow and they take their positions on the outskirts of the camp. He’s always been one for silence in watch. It’s been many years since he’s had anyone that he particularly cared to talk to. Or years since he was ever on watch with just one person. No Paladin ever felt comfortable being with him alone.

Arthur focuses on the task at hand but gives no indication of being afraid of him. It’s an odd thing, especially in a man-blood. There is usually an undercurrent of wariness. Even those who conceal it decently don’t do it well. But Arthur is only tense when he looks out into the woods. He turns his back to him without any concern that Lancelot will plunge a knife into it. The trust grates at him like a bug bite until he gives in.

“Did you see the Fire on the ship?” He asks finally.

“Ah, no,” Arthur admits with an almost self deprecating grin, “I just saw Pym. I figured I could spare someone from a little more pain,” he looks at him, “besides I owed you a hit from the woods.”

Lancelot considers his words. There’s no malice in them, which is something he would expect. From a man-blood especially. But Arthur shows him the respect of one warrior to another. Which, Lancelot realizes, he’s been doing for longer than the boat.

“You have no reason—“ he starts. Arthur raises an eyebrow, “why?” He asks again.

“Pym didn’t say anything?” Arthur asks. Lancelot shakes his head. Arthur nods and the respect in his eyes for Pym almost makes Lancelot’s annoyance worth it, “she wasn’t supposed to,” Arthur adds quickly, “but I wasn’t sure—“

“She doesn’t betray her friends,” Lancelot cuts in quickly.

“I’ve seen that,” Arthur assures him. He hesitates a moment before continuing, “my father left me with his debts when I was a boy,” he says, “Morgana was shipped off to the abbey. I was twelve,” he adds. He shrugs, “I know what it’s like for one decision as a boy to change the course of your life. And not in the way you had hoped.”

Lancelot ignores the urge to point out the difference in those decisions. Instead he forces himself to at least try to see what Arthur is doing. Talking about his childhood doesn’t seem to be something that he does readily. Offering it up to him like this is not something Lancelot thinks he would do in return. Not like this. Arthur seems more nervous speaking about his childhood and explaining his actions than he does standing in the middle of the woods with an enemy.

“Nimue is back,” he says instead. Arthur stiffens, “are you not pleased?”

“Of course I am,” Arthur says quickly, “it’s just complicated,” Lancelot looks at him blankly, “Nimue’s first duty is to her people,” Arthur says, “she’s their Queen. I’m a mercenary at best,” he explains, “and a man-blood.”

“She can’t be with you and be their Queen?” Lancelot says.

“She can, I’m just not sure she should,” he says, “if you serve something like that, it comes first,” he looks over at him, “you’re a man of God. Doesn’t He come first?”

Lancelot opens his mouth to explain again that he’s not a monk but that He does come first. But he realizes he doesn’t know the answer much himself. He’s spent his entire life living a certain way, denying things he cannot deny anymore. Otherwise he would have his hairshirt on. He would continue to live that life of pain, obey it’s siren call.

“I’m not sure anymore,” he says finally.

Arthur looks at him sympathetically.

“It’s not easy losing everything you once knew,” he says. It should be an unnecessary observation but Lancelot nods anyway, “not to mention The Red Spear won’t speak to me.”

“I’ve noticed,” Lancelot says, “what will you do?”

“Haven’t figured that out yet,” Arthur says, “it’s not like we were doing anything,” he adds quickly, “or even sure of our feelings—“ he shakes his head, “I’m not sure how you convince a Raider to forgive you for the girl you loved coming back to life.”

“Bring her Cumber’s head,” Lancelot says, “she seems to want that.”

Arthur looks at him and then laughs, doing his best to stifle it. Lancelot is forced to admit his interactions with women, especially in the romance area, are not many. Apparently doing the thing that the Red Spear won’t shut up about isn’t something that Arthur considered. Though it seems quite obvious to Lancelot.

“I never thought about winning a woman’s heart with a severed head,” he says, “but you might be right,” he shakes his head, “I can’t wait to see how Squirrel wins girl’s hearts with your advice.”

“By listening,” Lancelot says with a shrug.

“Ah,” Arthur goes quiet for a moment and looks around before looking back at him, “have you been thinking about any Fey maidens?”

  
It’s a legitimate question to ask. Lancelot wonders if he means Tristain, though the Ash Fey would rather gut him. Which seems to be a shared sentiment but Lancelot can see how the idea of two Ash Fey would make sense. There are so few of them. But like most Paladins and Guard members, the extinction of the Fey is her end goal.

“No,” Lancelot says, “the Fey are still afraid of me.”

“Well I know one that isn’t,” Arthur says.

“Murdering me isn’t preferable.”

“I didn’t think Pym wanted to murder you, she does seem to go out of her way to make sure you’re alive.”

Lancelot looks at him in surprise. He’s lucky that there aren’t any enemies around, he nearly drops the bow. Arthur catches his eye and the surprise must be obvious on Lancelot’s face because the man-blood’s expression goes from surprised to amused to sympathetic.  
  
“Are you two—“ Arthur starts.

“No,” he says quickly. His heart kicks faster, “do people think—“ he hesitates, “she doesn’t forgive me for what I’ve done. She’s a member of the Sky Folk, before she’s anything else.”

“People have just seen you two sneaking off together,” Arthur says, “I’d ignore what they’re saying,” he tells him, “you must be used to people talking about you. Don’t let gossip keep you from spending time with your—ah—friend.”

Lancelot nods. He doesn’t plan to. He’s fairly confident in the bond he has with Pym being friendship, but he doesn’t think she wants to call it such. Despite her declaring her loyalty and him trusting in it, he imagines saying that they are friends will put her in a strange position. He’s also aware from the one time he accidentally put some slight distance between them by not telling her his part of the plan, she was upset. It’s not an experience he has any interest in repeating. For all that his past actions seem to constantly upset her, along with her own feelings on being kind to him, the difference in those and her reaction to him distancing himself slightly is sharp. He doesn’t fully understand it but he knows that being away from him isn’t something she wants. He doesn’t either, he enjoys her company.

“We feel comfortable speaking to each other,” he says.

“You don’t have to explain it to me,” Arthur assures him and then, as though sensing something, he sighs, “you feel comfortable speaking to each other and—“

“We understand each other,” Lancelot says, “neither of us feel entirely Fey.”

Something like understanding shows on Arthur’s face and he nods.

“It’s good you two have each other then,” he says. It’s not what Lancelot was expecting to hear, “listening to what women want is good advice,” Arthur says after a moment, “in case your feelings towards each other ever change.”

“They won’t,” Lancelot says.

“I’m beginning to think being stubborn is a requirement for being a part of the Church,” Arthur remarks.

They pass the rest of their watch in silence. Lancelot pushes the thoughts of what Arthur has said to the back of his head and focuses on what he can understand. What he can do. At the moment that is keep Arthur and the rest of the people in their camp safe. When they are relieved of their watch, Arthur nods to him and heads back. Belatedly Lancelot realizes he doesn’t ask for the bow back. Whatever he’s said, it hasn’t been enough to make Arthur act as though he is a threat. It’s a complicated, humbling realization. But not one that he finds unpleasant. Lancelot makes his way silently to the tent where Pym and Squirrel are. They haven’t discussed sleeping arrangements but he has no issue with sleeping outside near Goliath.

He hasn’t been there long when he hears Pym whimper.

She’s just been kidnapped and he’s known to keep an eye on her. She escaped last time and this time, she arguably got away fine. But he can see that the inevitable crash is coming. She’s been too busy with her friends to notice which he is both grateful for and troubled by. Every day the isle draws closer and he has to think more about what will happen next. The idea of her going would be sensible. More sensible than even being with the Raiders, though anything would be better than her being on the coast. The Paladins won’t stop. The Church won’t stop. But no matter where she goes if she doesn’t learn to be aware of what’s going on around her, she’ll be in trouble.

When he hears her whimper, he knows she’s having a nightmare.

The Paladins learn to stifle anything of the sort. Though he knows most of them sleep just fine. He’s always been wracked by nightmares. But he’s learned to keep himself quiet, to push them away. He doesn’t remember them half the time anymore. Leaving her at their mercy is not something he considers, it’s more the fact that she is sleeping that makes him hesitate. But she whimpers again and he pushes past the hesitation, reasoning that if she was expecting him to come for her when they were awake this is a similar thing.

Squirrel is curled up on his side of the tent and Lancelot makes sure the boy is still asleep before he goes over to Pym. She is curled into a ball, but her hand sticks out from the bedroll, clenched tightly. It feels like a lifetime ago that she got the burn on her palm trying to keep him from being hurt. The skin is still dark with fresh healing. He knows she’ll have a scar.

“Pym,” he says her name softly, but she doesn’t move.

He hesitates a moment before touching her shoulder. Logically it should work but she doesn’t wake up. His own inexperience comes woefully into play. Thankfully he remembers the foul smelling salts that she gave him for when the smell of Fey using their magic was too much. He leans forward and waves them under her nose. Some combination of his hand on her shoulder and whatever is in that vial seem to do the trick and her eyes fly open.

“You’re alright,” he says softly.

She looks over her shoulder at him. He half expects her to go for the knife or to look at him with fear, but her eyes focus after a moment and then she relaxes. She sits up and presses her hand to her forehead. She looks over at the sheet and back at him and he shakes his head, letting her know Squirrel is still asleep. He offers her his hand and she takes it, getting up into a couch and stepping out into the night. She drops his hand when they get outside, folding her arms over her chest.

“Sorry,” she says, “thank you for waking me up,” she sighs, “I wasn’t screaming was I?”

“No,” he says.

“Good.”

She falls silent. He knows that she is usually the one to guide their conversations. His own abilities are still a work in progress. But she doesn’t seem in the mood to talk. She still seems shaken by whatever it is she has dreamed about. He’s not sure if it was the Paladins, the Guard, the Raiders, him—the list is unsettlingly long. Everything he thinks of saying ties back to one of those topics. It leaves him at a kind of loss. He has no trouble with silence but he’s never seen Pym to be the silent one.

It’s Goliath who solves things.

He comes up and pushes his nose into Pym’s hand, batting it up until she gets the message and obediently scratches him. He must pick up on the fear that comes off her. It’s not the first time Goliath has comforted a Fey after a nightmare. Unfortunately it won’t be the last. As she scratches him, he steps closer until she has to look at him. He demands all her attention like he always does whenever Lancelot wakes from a nightmare. It takes Pym a moment longer but when she sighs and focuses on him it seems to make her entire body relax.

“Thank you,” she says. He’s not sure if she means him or Goliath, but when she looks at him he thinks she means him so he nods in acknowledgement, “how was your watch?”

“Uneventful,” he says.

“That’s good,” she remarks, “something should be for once,” she shakes her head, “I keep smelling that hood,” she says.

“It’s alcohol, nightshade, hemlock, opium, lettuce and vinegar,” he says, “the hood is soaked in it. But you swallowed it,” she looks at him, “they push it into your mouth and when you sweat, it mixes.”

He waits for the information to upset her but she considers it for a moment before nodding.

“So there’s nothing that can render you unconscious just by smelling it?”

“Not that the Paladins use.”

She seems to relax more.

“That’s good,” she says with an almost nervous smile, “I don’t know why I thought that. It seems ridiculous.”

“Confusion is a tactic they use,” he says, “it’s been refined and well honed,” she doesn’t seem convinced, “you won’t fall for it if they come again.”

“No,” she agrees, “the third time will be the charm,” he looks at her blankly, “it’s a Fey expression,” she smiles a bit more genuinely, “thank you for not saying it won’t happen again just to make me feel better.”

“If you’re planning on traveling with the Raiders it may,” he says, “the Paladins are their enemies. They make take you even after we’ve parted ways.”

She looks over at him with confusion. Then the determination he’s used to seeing comes across her face and she turns back to Goliath.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” she says, “and you and Squirrel probably have training and adventures and knightly things to do,” she looks at him, “but I don’t want to part ways when we reach the isle.”

“Squirrel—“ he starts.

“Not Squirrel,” she cuts off, “well, of course I don’t want Squirrel to go. But that’s not what I’m talking about. I don’t want you to go away,” she explains directly.

It’s not a surprise, she’s fought for his presence. Father Carden did the same. He just cannot think of a reason for her to do it. He’s a skilled fighter but they have those, he’s a rare Fey but they have them as well. But she’s fought for his acceptance among the Fey and among the Raiders. There’s something about hearing her say it that confuses him. He knows the power of words but this is nothing he doesn’t know. It shouldn’t feel like he’s been caught off guard. It’s the nerves that show on her face when he looks at her and the blush that creeps up her cheeks that shakes his tongue loose.

“We’ll find a way,” he says finally, “I won’t be allowed on the ship until I know how to control it.”

“She doesn’t even have a ship so that should give you some time,” she says, “you seem to at least be able to make it stop.”

He ducks his head in acknowledgment. Making it go away is something. It’s not enough, it doesn’t give it any more use, but it at least makes him safer to be around. Slightly. She takes a deep breath and looks around, stifling a yawn.

“You should get some rest,” he says, “I’ll keep watch.”  
  
“Don’t be silly, someone else is keeping watch,” she says. He looks at her, “yes I know ,I know, but it’s not the same thing. There’s more of them posted. Besides you need to sleep as well.”

“I don’t want to wake Squirrel.”

“I’ll take down the sheet,” she says, “you can sleep in the middle.”

She undoes it with a whisper of magic. He knows better than to continue protesting. A part of him wants to stay out with Goliath but he and the horse both know that nearly three days with a few precious minutes of sleep isn’t going to make him useful. Pym goes to her side, Squirrel is still curled up on his. Lancelot lays down in between them and closes his eyes, imagining he can get a few moments of sleep and that will be enough.

The sun and Pym’s gentle shake wake him.

“Good morning,” she says and moves onto Squirrel, “good morning to you too.”

“I was awake,” Squirrel argues sleepily. He looks over at Lancelot, “when did you get in?”

“After watch,” Lancelot says.

“I want to go on watch,” Squirrel says sleepily.

“You will soon,” Lancelot says,

Squirrel nods and rubs his eyes before smiling at Pym and getting to his feet. They all follow him out of the tent and into the new day.


	33. Chapter 33

Tristain grunts as Pym puts her shoulder back into place.

It’s the only indication Pym imagines she’ll get of any discomfort. Once the joint is set, she turns to the long slice across her forearm. It’s swollen. She sighs and gets up, pulling back the neck of Tristain’s robes. She’s not surprised to see swelling there as well. She turns and looks at Nimue.

“You need to heal her,” she says, “her back and arm are infected,” Nimue glances away, “Nimue. She’s going to get worse.”

“She tried to take my people,” Nimue says cooly.

“She’s practically excommunicated,” Pym says, “if you want to send a message this isn’t the way,” Nimue looks at her and falters slightly, “besides, you’ve made it clear Lancelot isn’t your people and Morgana is, but she’s isn’t Fey. Torturing her isn’t going to solve anything except making her suffer.”

Nimue hesitates and then walks over. Tristain watches her intently as she moves forward. Vines grow up her skin as she brushes her fingertips across the forearm wound. The smell of Nimue’s power gets the better of her and though Tristain tries to fight it, she turns a sick shade of green. Pym pulls Nimue back as she’s sick all over the floor. It’s disgusting and despite the awe inspiring power Nimue wields, Pym knows the utterly horrified look on her face all too well.

“It’s the smell of your magic,” Pym explains.

“He told you about that as well,” Tristain grouses.

Nimue shoots her a warning look.

“Don’t do her back yet,” Pym says, “she’s wearing a hairshirt.”

Tristain makes a noise of disgust like she cannot believe Lancelot told her that too. Pym ignores her and undoes the front of her tunic. They’ve taken her outer layers and disguised her but no one has moved to strip her to the skin. It’s a kindness Pym knows wouldn’t be reciprocated. But isn’t the whole point that Fey are brothers? She reaches for the girdle and freezes at the black clasp. It’s iron. Tristain smirks down at her and Pym looks at the scarred skin of her hands. Ignoring the revulsion that shivers down her spine, she cuts the corded leather, ignoring the iron clasp. She pulls the shirt off and covers her front with the tunic. The skin there is red and chafed, but it’s not like her back.

“Let me get the hair out,” Pym says.

“I can do that,” Nimue tells her and presses her hands to Tristain’s shoulders.

Like Lancelot her entire body tenses and goes even stiffer as her skin knits back together. Pym watches as the fresher whip marks vanish. The older ones become pink scars that fade with age. When she looks back at her palms, the angry burns are still there. Like the one still on her own hand. She knows there are limits to Nimue’s healing. She’s seen them firsthand. It seems like iron is one of them. Tristain glares over her shoulder at Nimue who meets her look easily. There’s no sign of fear on her, not like Pym felt in herself the first few times Lancelot glared at her. But it’s Nimue. She’s been at the receiving end of glares her entire life. But the green color comes back to her face and Pym just manages to get out of the way again.

“Is she going to do that every time someone uses magic?” Nimue demands.

“It’s worse in an enclosed space,” Pym explains.

“How do you _know_ that?” Nimue questions.

“I wove some willows together on our first night in the forest so we would have somewhere to sleep,” Pym says, “Lancelot explained.”

“He was already telling you how he worked a few days in?” Nimue questions.

“Yes?” Pym says, hesitating and wondering if this is going to lead to some kind of argument.

Tristain snorts, drawing their attention. Pym thinks if she hadn’t seen the destruction the Guard could cause and the death the Ash Folk were capable of, then she wouldn’t be terribly intimidating. She looks to be around their age, though the black lines that fan from her eyes make her look older. In the same way that she and Nimue used to line their eyes and stain their lips during festivals. Nimue’s disbelieving look turns angry but Pym imagines the two of them are thinking far more similar things than they would like to admit,.

“Are there any secrets he hasn’t told you?” Tristain asks.

“I wouldn’t know,” Pym replies.

“So you know he told them? Saved his own skin? He barely lasted an hour with Brother Salt before he was telling him everything,” Tristain looks her up and down, “I knew he hadn’t changed.”

The humming in Pym’s ears turns into outright roaring as the blood pounds through her. She was wondering what made Lancelot so angry but as her blood pounds she thinks that she understands. Hearing that her friends are wrong isn’t new to her. But no-one ever accused Nimue of being a coward. Still Pym knows better than to defend against what is being said. She refuses to give Tristain any opening. She looks over at Nimue who raises her eyebrows.

  
“She’s healed,” Pym says, “I think we’re done.”

“How long do you think it’ll be before he betrays you?” Tristain asks, glancing at Nimue, “he condemned his parents to die, someone like that knows no loyalty.”

“Come on, let’s just go,” Pym says as doubt shows on Nimue’s face, “she’s just trying to create trouble to save her own skin.”

“I’m not the one who sold out his people,” Tristain shoots back, “why do you think he never touches the little ones? It’s not them he’s trying to save. He’s trying to save himself.”

Pym bites her tongue for a moment longer but it seems her ability to turn the other cheek has frayed. The Raiders seem to have had some effect as she turns to Tristain.

“How long did you last with Brother Salt?” She questions.

Tristain scoffs.

“They already knew I was useful.”

“So you weren’t tortured. Because of him,” she says.

Tristain sneers and then it’s Nimue who pulls her out. Pym sucks in the fresh air and pulls her arm free. She feels the adrenaline pounding through her. She’s never had to be removed from a room before, not because of something she said. She’s not the type to speak like that. She never has been. She’s supposed to be smarter. When Nimue tries to grasp her hand, she jumps like she’s been struck.

“I don’t know why I did that,” she stammers out.

“It’s alright,” Nimue says.

“No, I know better—“ she takes a deep breath.

“It’s alright,” Nimue repeats, “she’s just trying to get under your skin. She just wants to be unchained.” Pym nods absently, “it’s also easier for her, with what the Ash Folk have done.”

Pym nods again before Nimue’s words catch up to her. She’s right, she knows that she’s right. She should be afraid of the Ash Folk after what Lancelot did. It’s just not that simple anymore. She’s used to the realization that it’s not simple being accompanied by the confusion and the guilt. The Grief. She’s not used to it not being accompanied by those things. At least, not to the same degree. Nimue is waiting for her to agree and Pym opens her mouth to explain herself and finds that she doesn’t fully know how to.

“It’s not that simple,” she says.

Nimue’s expression falters with confusion and Pym wonders how, with all the amazing things that Nimue can do, this is something that she doesn’t see. She has no reason to see it, Pym reminds herself. But it makes her doubt her own feelings. Nimue can do things that Pym can’t even dream of being able to do, what business does someone like her have in not viewing Lancelot like everyone else does?

“I know he’s your friend—“ Nimue starts.

“And Squirrel’s,” Pym adds.

“Who he kidnapped,” Nimue blurts out. Pym knows she’s just stuck her own foot in her mouth. Lancelot took Squirrel, there’s absolutely no way around it, “I know, it’s not that simple,” Nimue starts.

“I’m not saying he hasn’t done terrible things,” Pym says, “it’s just—“

“He’s your friend,” Nimue finishes.

“I think he’s become one?” Pym says. Nimue arches her eyebrows at the questioning tone, “I don’t think Squirrel or I would have given him a chance if we weren’t friends with you—“

“I am nothing like him,” Nimue says and Pym realizes her mistake, “I didn’t choose to hunt my own kind with my power. Or kill my mother. Or hunt me down like some kind of animal,” she says, “we aren’t alike.”

“I know,” Pym says quickly.

“So then why are you wasting your time trying to care about the man who killed our friends?” Nimue questions.

“It’s not that simple—“ Pym tries.

“So explain it to me,” Nimue says, crossing her arms.

She’s serious and Pym realizes she doesn’t have the words. Worse, she doesn’t know how to explain anything that’s going on in her stomach at the moment. But she knows for sure that if she tries right now she’s going to say something stupid and make this mess so much worse. She shakes her head and turns away.

“Don’t walk away,” Nimue says and her voice takes on a tone that Pym has only heard her use once before, “I command you to stop!”

Pym freezes and realizes it’s her own body that’s doing it. She curls her fingers into fists and feels the burn mark. She’s been brave. She’s been brave even without the weight of the amulet. Nimue is behind her breathing roughly and Pym tries not to think of wolves. She picks up her foot and commands herself to walk forward. She doesn’t know why she goes in the direction she’s going or even if she truly has one. Not until she hears the methodic scraping of a whetstone.

She finds Guinevere sharpening her spear. Guinevere looks up at her but no threats come from her lips, so Pym sits down. Guinevere glances at the knife and then turns back to her spear, continuing to work on the blade. She doesn’t start the conversation and Pym tells herself that she’ll respect the silence, even as her foot starts to tap nervously. The stone pauses, then resumes. The pauses again. Finally Guinevere rolls her eyes and sets it down.

“Out with it,” she says.

“How do you be an exile?” Pym blurts out, “how do you turn away from everything you knew? The person you swore to follow? Did you know it wasn’t right for you and just decide to do it anyway? How do you live with yourself?”

Guinevere narrows her eyes.

“I’m not talking about against you,” Pym adds.

“Good,” Guinevere says. She goes silent and back to sharpening. Pym thinks for a moment that she may just be ignoring what she said. Or maybe she doesn’t give advice. Maybe Pym’s just generally wasting her time— “you decide something’s more important. You focus on that.”

“But what if you’re not sure if it’s more important? Or it’s something you think might be but it’s ridiculous to think that it is?”

“You just decide that it is,” Guinevere snaps.

“Even if it’s ridiculous?”

“It’s your life, isn’t it?” Guinevere says. Pym realizes she’s expecting an answer and belatedly nods, “so why do you care if people think it’s ridiculous?”

“People matter,” Pym says.

“Not if they’re making you miserable,” Guinevere points out.

“It’s not that simple,” Pym says again and wonders how that has become her most repeated phrase.

“Of course it is,” Guinevere dismisses, “the things that matter are always simple. You’re complicating it because you don’t want to do the hard thing.”

Pym hangs her head, wondering if she’s right or if there’s any point in saying that this isn’t the same. Raiders seem to make decisions based on life or death, and that does seem to boil down to simplicity. They want to be alive so they find a way to do that. They need a healer, they get one. It makes simplistic, brutal sense. Guinevere deems her spear sharp enough and holds out her hand. After a moment Pym realizes that she’s waiting for the knife and she hands it to her.

“Did Cumber send you into exile against your will?”

“No,” she says, “he gave me a choice. Serve him or leave,” she starts to work on the knife, “so I left.”

“He seems terrible,” Pym says. Guinevere nods but doesn’t look pleased at the assessment, “do you still feel loyal to him?”

“Not as my king,” she says, “and I’m a grown woman, I have no use for obeying my father.”

It takes a moment for the words to register and then Pym manages to choke on nothing but the spit in her mouth. Though when she thinks to the Ice King’s daughters, Guinevere suddenly seems a lot more like a princess than Pym ever would have thought. Guinevere watches her cough and sputter.

“He’s your what?!” Pym gets out. Guinevere looks shocked at her reaction, “I’ve been on your ship. You don’t act like his daughter—“

Guinevere gets up in a smooth, fast motion that would make Pym think she wasn’t human. Suddenly she’s in front of her, bearing down on her. Pym swallows and tries not to think about how dark rimmed eyes seem to mean Fey death in this world.

“And you’re a Fey whose here talking to me about defending the one whose murdered all your kin,” Guinevere says.

“Fair enough,” Pym squeaks.

Guinevere holds her gaze for another moment before walking slowly back to her previous perch and resuming sharpening.

“So Eydis—“

“Both my sisters,” she says. Pym nods. Guinevere sighs and stops sharpening, “They sided with Cumber.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

Guinevere picks up the stone and resumes, but there’s a force to her movements that wasn’t there before.

“He killed our mother.” Pym looks at her sharply, “tried to pass it off as an accident. But my mother’s ghost appeared to me, she told me what happened,” she sharpens again, “they said it didn’t matter, that if she died at our father’s hands he was still our father. Like she was just his property to do as he wished,” her lip curls in disgust, “I refuse to let a man tell me what to do. Not my father, not one I marry.”

“I can’t believe you’re a princess,” Pym confesses, “though I suppose that’s why you don’t want anyone to know your name.”

Guinevere looks at her for a long moment and then nods. She tests the knife and then flips it over, offering Pym the handle. When Pym reaches for it, she pulls it out of her grasp and looks her dead in the eye.

“Stop complicating things,” she says, “and get on with it.” Pym takes the knife from her and Guinevere picks up her spear, “everyone on my ship came from somewhere else,” she adds, not looking up at Pym, “but if you try to mutiny on me I’ll throw you overboard,” she nods, though she gets the impression that Guinevere saw even if she doesn’t look up, “and remember that fire starter isn’t allowed on my boat until he learns to control the damn stuff.”

Pym walks off with the strangest urge to hug her. But she would like to keep her guts inside her skin. Instead she finds Nimue and Morgana. Morgana sees her first and Nimue is up in a moment, walking over. She looks sorry but Pym doesn’t trust the look. No more than she trusts her own ability to explain everything without sticking her foot in her mouth again.

“You’re right,” she says, “you two aren’t the same. You’re a good person, you always have been. You wouldn’t do anything that Lancelot’s done to the Fey,” she swallows, “but he’s my friend as well. I hate that we weren’t together with everything, that we’ve been apart for so long. I hate what he’s done,” she says, “but I do trust him. We’ve become friends. I understand if you don’t like that, but it’s not going to change my mind,” she fights the urge to fiddle with her braid, “I hope you can respect that. That and—I’m not going to the isle if he can’t come with us.”

  
Nimue looks surprised. Morgana looks disgusted. Pym shoves aside the thought that she has no business saying any of this to two people who could kill her with a thought.

  
“Where will you go?” Morgana asks, though her tone is kinder than Pym would have expected.

“The Red Spear has said I can go with her,” Pym says.

“I thought you wanted to stay off the isle to have adventures,” Nimue says.

“I do,” Pym agrees, “but I won’t go somewhere my fellow Fey cannot.”

“It’s not your fellow Fey,” Nimue says.

“He is to me,” Pym replies. It’s the steadiest she’s managed to make her voice, “and not only to me,” she adds, “but that’s not what matters. It’s my decision.”

Nimue looks at her quietly for a moment. Morgana does at well. But while sadness shines from Nimue, there’s something closer to pride in Morgana’s eyes. For what, Pym isn’t sure. But it helps her stand up a little straighter before a weight seems to settle on Nimue and the sadness gets pushed back.

“We can figure that out when we get to the isle,” Morgana says, looking between them, “in the meantime Nimue and I have other preparations to discuss.”

“Right,” Nimue says, “thank you for telling me.”

Pym nods and wonders how something can be so empty it aches. She feels untethered. Worse, she feels relieved. Maybe it have made a decision, maybe because she’s been honest, she’s not sure. But that longing for the girl she was before this seems to have released whatever stranglehold it had on her.

She feels free.

It hurts less when Morgana and Nimue turn back to each other and she turns to walk away.


	34. Chapter 34

“This is uncomfortable.”

“This is boring.”

“What’s the point of this?”

“When can I learn to do that instead?”

Lancelot opens his eyes and regards Squirrel. He’s bent in half, reaching for his toes. The boy has courage in spades. All the things that cannot be taught, but the things that can be are more of a mixed bag. He’s decent with a bow, he’s quick on his feet but if he runs at the Guard blindly swinging a blade he will be killed. He has no foundation. Lancelot has never been a teacher in this way. But getting the boy working on his flexibility is a good place to start.

It is not the most interesting part.

Lancelot remembers arguing something similar. Once. He will not entertain using those methods on Squirrel, even if the idea of gagging him is more tempting than he wishes to admit. Instead he unwinds from his own posture and lowers his feet back to the ground. Squirrel goes to stand up and Lancelot stops him with a hand on the back of his neck. Not forcing but letting him know it isn’t time to get up.

“You have no foundation,” he says.

“Foundations are boring,” Squirrel argues.

“Foundations are essential,” comes a reply, “otherwise you just have a tent that can be blown away by a strong wind.”

Squirrel stands up and looks at Kaze. Kaze regards the pair of them neutrally. Lancelot picked this spot away from the rest of the camp. He should have know he wouldn’t be the only one seeking space and privacy. It’s been too long since he trained properly and this isn’t even that. He’s not sure what this is. Just that the last time he did any sort of training he was a man of the cloth and the only hide he had to worry about was his own. His own and Goliath. He doubts he would have acknowledged that back then in the same way he can acknowledge it now.

“Do you have a strong foundation?” Squirrel asks, “didn’t Lancelot beat you?”

Lancelot looks at him sharply but Squirrel meets his eyes and shrugs. He did beat them both, but this isn’t the time to be bringing that up. Kaze doesn’t look furious about it though. She recognizes defeat and survival are parts of life, that if you’re lucky you walk away. Or maybe it’s just that she knows better than to be upset at a rude question asked by a child.

“He beat Gawain as well,” Kaze says with a shrug, “imagine how much worse we would have been if we had not had the foundations we do.”

That makes sense to Squirrel who considers it for a moment, nods, sighs and goes back to trying to lay his hands flat on the ground. Lancelot looks up and Kaze gives him an unimpressed once-over.

“This is your first time training little ones,” she says.

“Yes,” he admits.

“That wasn’t a question,” she tells him. Lancelot realizes she’s right, “little ones need to have everything explained—once—or they’ll just complain the whole time,” Squirrel looks as though he wants to come up but this time he stays in the posture of his own volition, “progress.”

“You can come up,” he tells Squirrel who straightens up.

“Are you two going to spar?” He asks.

“No,” he says at the same time Kaze shrugs.

“I haven’t sparred this morning yet.”

He looks sharply over at her and she glances back at him. Sparring isn’t something he regularly does against opponents. His Fey nature always got the best of him with the other Paladins. It was less about improving and more about seeing how much harm one could cause the Fey. Father Carden had stopped his sparring and had him turn to tracking after a particularly well aimed blow had broken his nose. A sharp sword wasn’t made to be blunted, it was only ever used for killing. Kaze looks at him curiously and he casts his eyes around.

“Are you looking for sticks?” She says, reaching to her shoulder. He looks back at her, “we won’t spar with weapons.”

He nods and she undoes the purple fabric around her and twists it into a tight chord. He watches as she wraps it around her hand and up her arm. Her movements are practiced and efficient, something she can do easily. He looks at Squirrel who drags his eyes from her to him. Lancelot realizes he’s waiting for him to do something similar. But he removed his boots before stretching out and he has no cloth. He cuffs his pants instead and gives his ankles a quick stretch before facing her.

“Are you ready?”

He nods and steadies himself. He realizes that the nerves have shifted to excitement as she looks at him without fear or revulsion. Just a hunger for a rematch. She shifts her weight slightly and he moves his own posture. He’s never fought another Fey, not without the intention of causing them actual harm. She feints with her left hand and out of the corner of his eye he sees her right hand come towards him. It’s when he goes to evade that her foot snaps out. He blocks it. She drives him back with a series of blows that he continues to block.

He doesn’t realize she’s driving him towards the tree, when he goes to sidestep that, he has no choice but to catch her foot and then her hand solidly connects with his face.

“It would be easier if you didn’t focus so much on blocking,” she tells him, resetting back to their original starting points.

  
“The Paladins weren’t keen on sparring with a Fey,” he says, resuming his stance.

“And yet I seem to remember you having a lot of practice striking us.”

He deserves a worse verbal jab. But this time when she strikes, he blocks the blow with his shin and jabs at her face. She blocks the blow and catches his kick with her arm. He rolls with the momentum, taking her to the ground. She lets go of his leg and he takes the mount, pinning her cloth wrapped arm. She gives the ground two hard slaps and he freezes.

“That means you’ve won,” she informs him.

Stupidly, he looks at her a moment longer before releasing her arm and getting to his feet. He holds out a hand to her and she takes it, pulling herself up. He nods at her and she returns the gesture before they reset back to their original marks. This time when she strikes it’s with more confidence and when he thinks he has her pinned, she gets free and flips backwards and manages to land a good hit to his stomach before suddenly getting him in a headlock. He braces himself to have his hair pulled or his air cut off but she goes still.

“Slap your leg if you’re done,” she says.

“I’m not done,” he replies.

“Good,” she says, “slap when you are.”

She applies pressure to his neck but it’s gentle. So when he throws her over his shoulder, he takes care not to drop all her weight. She gets him into her guard and controls him easily with her legs before one of her feet plants to his hip and she postures up, flipping him over her head. He rolls to his feet and she crouches, waiting for his next move. When he steps forward, she strikes him three times and he winds up flat on his back, her knee on his chest. She raises her eyebrows at him and glances at his hand and he uses that to his advantage, flipping their positions. He gets her in another lock and she slaps the ground. He releases her and she stands up. They’re both breathing hard and damp with sweat.

“You’ll have to show me that sometime,” she says.

He nods in agreement.

They both turn to Squirrel who is watching them open mouthed. He’s been joined by Pym whose mouth is closed but whose eyes are wide as well. Arthur and Guinevere look somewhere between the pair of them. Lancelot imagines that they haven’t seen Fey spar. Truthfully he hasn’t either. Not since he was a very young boy. He’s not sure how long any of them have been standing there.

“That was amazing!” Squirrel says, “when you did the throw and you did that kick—“ he tries to imitate the moves as best he can. Lancelot fights the urge to make sure he doesn’t fall over himself, “that was so cool!”

“And that is why you need to learn how to stretch,” Kaze says.

“I’ll stretch every day if I can fight like that,” Squirrel vows.

Lancelot looks over at Pym, half expecting her to have that tense, fearful look. But she doesn’t. He thinks he must have done the sparring thing correctly if she just looks slightly impressed at the fighting. Kaze unwinds her arm, shakes out the fabric and puts it back at her waist. After taking a few of her jabs he can see why she doesn’t keep it on all the time. Pym comes over to him as he steadies his breathing, enjoying the burn in his muscles.

“You seem to have enjoyed that,” she remarks.

“I did,” he says, “I wasn’t permitted to spar with the Paladins.”

“Well, I don’t think you’ll want for sparring partners,” she remarks, looking over at the group who keep glancing towards him with keen interest.

They don’t seem to be sizing him up or looking at him with the desire for revenge. He supposes that they are all past that, though from what he has seen he would put Kaze at among the most trained. In a way that he understands at least. He’s always understood movement and fighting better than words. There’s an honesty in the strike of flesh on flesh that has always been comforting in its simplicity. There’s no lie, no alternative meaning, no absent Grace. It’s a language he speaks.

He looks over at Pym.

Something has changed.

Lancelot doesn’t know what it is. Pym seems more relaxed than he’s seen her before, as if some great weight has been eased. Her scent is no longer tinged with panic, her shoulders are not as stiff. The stress that has altered her scent seems far less.

“Did you sleep well?” He asks.

“Oh, yes,” she says, “why do you ask?”

“You seem more relaxed,” he says.

She looks away and her cheeks start to stain with color. He wonders if this is the kind of thing he shouldn’t comment on, but it also seems like a reasonable thing to ask. She gives a slight shrug and looks about before turning to face him.

“I’ve realized we’re friends,” she says, “and I’ve realized it’s something I’ve accepted and feeling badly about it because it seems like I should—seems foolish,” she explains, “I’m not saying that it’s that simple, but in a way I suppose it is,” he watches the blush get worse, “I suppose what I’m trying to say is I think I believe you.”

It’s not something that he thinks should surprise him. Or words that should have an effect on him. Not just after the was relishing in the language that he does understand. But Pym has been nothing but honest with him. Honest and kinder than he deserves. He’s never had someone fight for him with no ulterior motive. She tucks her hair behind her ears and folds her arms and he realizes that she’s waiting for him to say something.

“I’m glad,” he says.

“Good,” she replies, “I am too,” she adds, “it feels better to accept it.”

That’s something he understands. He feels himself slowly starting to accept the fact that he is a Fey. That these are his people. They always have been on some level. He’s not sure if he will ever find acceptance here—though as he looks over at Kaze and Squirrel he thinks that is better than being sure he never would. He looks back at Pym and nods.

“I’m glad we’re friends,” he says.

“As am I,” she tells him, “someday you’ll have to teach me how to use this knife.”

“I’d be happy to.”

She smiles brilliantly at him and he returns the gesture.

It feels right.


	35. Chapter 35

Nerves come on as the landscape shifts.

She sees the way that the trees start to become sparse, spaced apart. A fine mist starts to appear, reaching for them like fingers. The light changes as well, instead of growing brighter as the trees thin it starts to grow fainter. It’s like walking into some kind of fog. Everything that pushes from the ground starts to change as well, it tilts and twists as though trying to strain from the direction that they’re going. As if running from some great beast that will swallow them if they continue forward. Pym glances at the wagon of children. Even Squirrel seems nervous. Bors looks close to tears.

“I don’t like this,” Bors says.

“I don’t either,” Pym agrees, “but maybe it’s meant to be that way, to scare off our enemies.”

Bors doesn’t necessarily seem comforted by this but Squirrel nods as though it makes sense. Pym can only hope that it does. Some of the horses start to make noise and become skittish. Pym stops her horse and falls back a bit until Goliath appears though the mist. Goliath seems calm but Lancelot’s posture is tense. He’s one of them but has also been an enemy. She imagines his mind is working along the same lines. When he looks at her, he gives her a curious but grateful look.

“I don’t like this,” she admits to him.

“I agree,” he says, “it should be better ahead.”

“Should be?”

“Things like this are to protect something. Inside it’s never the same,” he glances at her horse, “he seems to be doing alright.”

“He is,” she says, “Goliath seems fine,” she smirks, “I suppose this isn’t as terrifying as Fey Fire.”

Lancelot smiles and shakes his head in agreement. The mist starts to grow even thicker and she hears the command given to stop. It’s difficult to see anything that isn’t close. She hears a horse moving and for a moment, she’s worried that they’ve been found. That even if they cannot see, someone else might be able to. But it’s Arthur who comes out of the mist and visibly relaxes at the sight of the two of them.

“Oh good, you’re together,” he says, “this is how the path is supposed to be, but it’s not going well. We’re going to need some help getting through it.”

“I can track whoever leads,” Lancelot says.

“Nimue and Morgana will go ahead,” he says. Lancelot nods, “Pym can you link some of the horses together? We can’t link everyone but it might help with a few.”

“Yes,” she touches the neck of the horse she’s riding, “this one’s good at following Goliath.”

Arthur nods.

  
“You should take him,” Lancelot says, “Pym should come with me on Goliath and mark the way.”

“Is he ready?” She asks. Lancelot nods.

Pym decides that trusting him is the best move here. They dismount and Lancelot helps her find the others in the fog. Arthur helps pair people off and hands Pym cut coils of ropes. Despite everyone staying still, Guinevere joins them.

“Pym’s going to ride with Lancelot, I’m going in the back,” Arthur says. She surveys the group and nods.

“I’ll join you,” she says.

Pym opens her mouth to say that she’ll tether their horses but Guinevere has already moved back. She supposes that it’s easier for her to be in the fog. After all, navigating that with no visible end in sight is part of being on a ship. Still she’s glad they both will have each other to watch their backs.

She mounts Goliath and scoots backwards in the saddle, giving Lancelot as much room as she can to get on. Though she’s started to become accustom to being the one in control of the horse, she’s also very familiar with riding behind someone. Of course Nimue is much closer to her height, Lancelot towers over her. But it doesn’t truly matter, she supposes. Even if she could see around him, it’s not as if there’s anything to see.

“Hold on,” He says, “they’re moving fast.”

Pym wraps her arms around him and thanks the gods is cloak isn’t as rough as some of the things she’s seen him wear. She focuses on keeping all the knots tight. He and Goliath tense at the same time and then move forward. However good she thought she was becoming or Nimue was, there’s a stark difference between what they can do and what someone who has spent his entire life riding constantly does. Goliath trust him, but Pym also realizes that there are a hundred tiny weight shifts that leave no doubt about where Lancelot wants him to go.

“Here,” Lancelot says and Pym throws one of the ropes, snapping a knot around the tree without Goliath needing to stop. They repeat a dozen times at Lancelot’s command until she just has one last length of rope left, “throw the last,” he says.

She doesn’t ask now he knows, she just throws the last and knots it off. The soupy fog seems to have gotten even worse and then Goliath stops abruptly. Pym grips Lancelot tighter and looks around but she can see nothing. Even if she doesn’t go to the isle, she can’t imagine leaving anyone here. Let alone anyone small or young. If she listens past the sound of her own racing heart or Goliath and Lancelot’s breathing, she can hear something. But it takes her mind a moment to recognize what it is.

She’s off Goliath and walking towards the sound. The rocks under her feet are smooth and round. They don’t make it any easier than the fog. But she picks her way forward, following the sound. Water laps at the rocks but it’s very little. She sees it curve around the stones and then pull back with the movement of the water.

And just beyond where the water is, she sees the ice.

She nearly crashes into Nimue as she comes to the edge. She’s standing looking out at it and Pym stares ahead. She cannot see very far. But the ice is unexpected. She has no idea if it will hold anyone’s weight, if there’s another plan to get them across. Just that there was no mention of ice. Ice or fog or any of this.

“This feels wrong,” she says.

“It’s not,” Morgana tells her, “what does it feel like?”

“Death.”

Lancelot answers calmly, looking ahead. Goliath follows without him needing to hold the reins. In his hand is one of the stones from the beach. He turns it over in his palm, as though he’s trying to memorize the sides through his skin. She notices he’s shifted his weight to accommodate the unstable terrain. He moves across it almost naturally.

“Across the lake is the isle,” Morgana says, “the Fey will be safe there.”

“They’ll be dead,” Lancelot says.

“No,” Morgana replies, “they’ll live, but removed from this land and its threats,” she gives him a hard look, “safe.”

“If this is anything like dying you have to tell them,” Pym says, her heart jumping, “we were told we were going to an isle in the middle of a lake. No-one said anything about death.”

“You heard her, it’s not dying,” Nimue says, “it’s just removed.”

“That’s what dying is!”

Pym turns from the ice and looks back. She can hear people have started to arrive and she wants to shout at them to turn around. They’ll find another place. Some other way. But this isn’t the salvation they’ve been hoping for. Nothing good can come from making their way across this place, it can only be sad. Lancelot rests a hand on her shoulder and she looks up at him.

“They need to get here safely,” he says, “then decide.”

Pym nods, she knows he’s right but it’s not what she wishes to do. His hand rests on her shoulder as they arrive with quiet, confused conversation. She waits until she hears Arthur and Guinevere arrive before breathing out in relief. They’ve made it here safely. That is one good thing. Morgana hears them too and she relaxes. Pym listens for the sound of pattering footsteps and looks to see Squirrel running to them.

“That was terrible,” he says, “I wouldn’t want to cross that again like that. Next time I’ll ride with you.”

Morgana touches Nimue’s hand and Nimue nods. Vines creep up her skin as Morgana closes her eyes and whispers something. The fog rolls back like a living thing, leaving only a light mist in it’s wake. It appears the way they came, taking all the visibility with it. Pym thinks this is like Morgana pulling back her veil. But on a much larger scale. She turns from the confused faces to see that the ice continues to stretch out. Just through the mists, she can see a landmass. As they roll back it continues to sharpen, looking deceptively close. She can see trees and greenery. Houses. Even a dock with several small boats.

“Across this lake is our new home,” Nimue says, “our safe haven. Welcome to Avalon.”


	36. Chapter 36

Tristain opens her eyes, looks at the stones and immediately turns several shades paler.

It’s all the confirmation he needs to trust the memory he had when he first caught her scent. He’s been on this beach before. Or one very similar. The fog, the rocks, all of it is something he half remembers. She raises her eyes and narrows them at him. He’s sure she would have things to say, but after what’s transpiring the last few times, she’s gagged. At the moment he doesn’t have any desire to take the gag off. Instead he walks back out of the tent and to where Pym is sitting with Squirrel. She has a rock in her hand and he has the strangest desire to take it. As though something as simple as holding a rock will tie her to this place. The sooner they leave this place the better.

“Tristain recognized the beach,” he says, “I half remember it. We’ve been here or somewhere like it before.”

“I thought you couldn’t remember anything from before,” Squirrel says.

“Her scent helped,” he says.

“I think she smells like lies,” Squirrel remarks, “and disappointment.”

“Quiet,” Pym says and folds her arms, “is Avalon where the Ash Folk were?”

He shakes his head.

“I don’t think so,” he says, “the boat journey was longer,” he looks around, “but I think this place is like the beach where the Ash Folk came from,” he explains, “we could navigate it.”

Pym lets out a shaky breath and tightens her arms around herself. He doesn’t blame her for the way she’s feeling, he feels it himself. Some small part of him is also grateful that the fear isn’t directed at him. But that’s not the bigger issue. He looks back at the isle and tries not to shudder. This place makes him feel the kind of humility that he saw the Paladins claim to feel when they went into Churches. There should be nothing holy about this place, it’s completely absent of His Grace, and yet he feels something terrifying and old here. Something that makes them all profoundly insignificant.

“Nimue has to tell them,” Pym says, “no-one can just walk off to their deaths or whatever this is without knowing what they’re choosing,” she looks at him, “don’t let Squirrel out of your sight,” she orders and walks off.

Squirrel rolls his eyes and looks out at the ice. Lancelot has spent his entire life in service of the next world. Death had never seemed peaceful. That was not the way of a Paladin. The most you could hope for was to stay alive long enough to receive the Sacrament, that your Brothers would pray for you to go to His Kingdom quickly. The Hellfire was one thing but this cool and mist and an isle is nothing like he would have imagined the next life. Not even if he would up going to a different place.

“If this is the next world, do you wish to go?” He asks Squirrel, “if it means seeing your father again?” Squirrel opens his mouth and he shakes his head, “think for a moment.”

“I don’t need to think,” Squirrel says, “my father didn’t die so that I could join him. He wanted me to live.”

  
The words are surprisingly wise, though Lancelot doesn’t know why that’s surprising at all. Courage, recklessness and wisdom seem to be three things that Squirrel has far beyond his years. The boy looks down at his feet and then back at the isle.

“I don’t see anyone there,” he says.

“I don’t either,” Lancelot replies.

“Do you think your parents are there?” Squirrel asks.

The question catches Lancelot off guard. His parents are not thoughts that he allows to come to the top of his head. Not unless he’s praying. They save souls, but his prayers have always included them. The quiet prayers he says far from the other Paladins, the ones that no-one but Goliath hears. He’s never trusted God to Save them, never thought his prayers were enough to save a life of sinful ways. But that has never stopped him from doing it.

“I don’t know,” he says.

“Hey, Bors, do you want to go there if your parents are there?” Squirrel asks.

The shadow of a boy who Lancelot is aware keeps looking at him creeps up to them. He’s still much more cautious, there’s still fear in his eyes. But when he looks at the isle his eyes fill with tears. Squirrel puts an arm around his shoulder as Bors sniffles loudly.

“They said I should be brave,” he says, “I want to tell them I’m sorry I’m not.”

“You’re brave,” Squirrel argues.

“It’s alright to not be,” Lancelot says. They both turn to look at him, “I wasn’t brave as a boy,” he says.

“Do you want to see your parents again?” Bors asks.

“No,” Lancelot says quickly, “though mine have a reason to be disappointed, yours do not.”

“I’m not brave,” Bors repeats.

  
“You’re alive,” Lancelot tells him, “bravery will follow.”

Bors considers this for a moment and then wipes his cheeks. It’s useless but he does it anyway and then shakes his head.

“I don’t want to go there,” he says, “not if it means not living.”

Lancelot nods at the boy and looks back out across the ice. He smells Gawain’s summer scent as he approaches. There’s no earth for him to come out of, he skirts the stones as best he can. Lancelot is surprised to see brown at his feet, as though being in this place is causing him to rot. Though there is some of the smell of this place on him, there always has been. He is the one who has died among them. He has Arthur with him. The two look at the boys and then at him. 

“Nimue is going to address everyone,” Arthur says and hesitates like he wishes to say something more.

“Brother, there is no shame in passing on,” Gawain says, “in knowing peace—“

“I’m not going,” Lancelot cuts in, “Percival and Bors aren’t either. They recognize the sacrifice their parents made was not to have them join them in the beyond,” he looks at Arthur. “We’ll stay.”

“Oh thank God,” Arthur says, looking visibly relieved. Gawain smiles, “I didn’t want to say anything but I’m glad to hear that.”

“Pym’s staying too,” Squirrel points out. Lancelot nods.

“I thought as much” Arthur says, “do you know who else?”

There’s something about the way he says it that digs into Lancelot, though he isn’t sure why. Perhaps she and Arthur discussed it before, though that also seems to annoy him. Or maybe it’s in the notion that a fully trained fighter is somehow more useful than a half trained healer. He can see the logic in that train of thought but it’s incorrect. Arthur gives him a curious look and Gawain almost looks as though he’s about to smile.

“Did I say something wrong?” Arthur asks.

“We had assumed Pym was staying because she’s made her loyalty to the Red Spear clear,” Gawain says, “we are glad to know her mind hasn’t changed.”

“She’s loyal,” Lancelot says.

“I know,” Gawain replies.

Arthur looks panicked for a moment and Lancelot forces himself to ease his expression. He must have miscalculated how he was looking at Arthur. Arthur shakes his head and looks at Gawain, some odd look passing between the two of them before he smiles at all of them.

“We’re glad to hear you and Pym are staying. Anyone else who wants to is welcome,” he says, “we’ll figure out a way to protect whoever we can.”

“Are you staying?” Lancelot asks Gawain.

“Yes,” he says, “I cannot cross freely,” he explains, “I am something beyond this,” he looks over, “people are gathering. You should go. I will get Tristain. All Fey need to listen.”

Lancelot nods and walks to where everyone is gathering. Nimue is standing with Merlin, Morgana and Pym. But Pym is removed from them. Even just in the distance she stands. But also in the anger on her face and the vibrancy that pours from her. It’s like living and the dead are standing together, separated by nothing more than a line in the stones. He looks at Tristain who is still pale and angry, but also afraid for the first time. Nimue steps up and looks at her people.

“The word we are in is no longer a friend to us,” she says, “it dies around us. Because of us. Now it belongs to mankind. This is the way of things and nothing we do will change it,” she looks over her shoulder, “I offer you a new life, removed from this world. We will not be dead, but we will not be as we are. We will be something new. We will be safe. Give our children a chance to grow. Should you desire to return, you may return as you are. But Avalon will always be safe and it will always welcome you home.”

A quiet murmuring breaks out among the Fey. Lancelot puts a hand on Squirrel to keep him from shouting some kind of question. The quieter he is, the easier time they will have staying where they are. The Fey murmur among themselves in confusion before Pym sees it and walks past Nimue to where Morgana is standing. She gives her a sharp look and Morgana glares back before stepping forward.

“The isle of Avalon is my home,” Morgana says, “it is a place that is between this world and the next. It can be your home. Should you choose it. Men are afraid, they dare not come here. So you will be safe."

“We will give you until nightfall tomorrow to make your choices. The mists will keep us safe.”

Pym seems to flounder for a moment, realizing the discussion seems over.

“I’m not going with you,” she says. Nimue turns, “this place belongs to the world of men but that doesn’t mean all men hate us,” she says, “I’m staying with the Red Spear,” she turns, “will you let the others stay?”

Guinevere only looks momentarily horrified before her expression instantly changes. Lancelot isn’t surprised at how quickly it does, he’s been surrounded by people who are truly born to leadership. There are just precious few here. But when she looks at Pym and at the other Fey, there’s nothing but calm assurance on her face. That and the usual amount of anger.

“I will,” she says, “those who stay will have a place with me and my protection.” 

“Those are your choices,” Pym says and walks over to the Red Spear, “Pass into the Twilight now or stay in the Dawn a while longer.”

The group waits for a rebuttal but there is none. They slowly start to disperse though Guinevere puts a hand on Pym’s shoulder and steers her away. Unwilling to see history repeat itself, Lancelot follows. After a moment Arthur does as well.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Guinevere demands, “I’m not after a court.”

“I thought you were—“ Pym cuts herself off as she looks at Arthur and Lancelot, “you need one if you’re going to take over from Cumber.”

“Not of half starved Fey,” she hisses.

“Half starved Fey and several warriors who have saved your hide,” Kaze reminds her. Pym relaxes visibly and Lancelot fights the urge to do so as well, “they give you an advantage and a claim.”

“I don’t need a claim,” Guinevere argues.

“And why’s that?” Kaze asks.

Guinevere glares at her but Kaze is thoroughly unimpressed and merely folds her arms, waiting for an explanation. She keeps her eyes locked with Guinevere except for one moment when she purposefully looks at the few Fey who seem to be moving slightly closer, as if to remind Guinevere what she’s agreed to. Lancelot shifts his stance and wishes that Pym would move her hand closer to the knife, as Guinevere looks too close to violence for his liking. But Guinevere doesn’t move to strike her, she just meets Kaze’s gaze.

“Cumber’s my father.”

Arthur chokes on nothing but the air and Guinevere shoots him an utterly withering look. Lancelot thinks of what he knows about Cumber, about Eydis and Dagmar. He looks at Guinevere. All the makeup and jewelry is a good distraction but in pushing past it he can see the similarities in the expressions and the set of their eyes. The curve of their noses. She and Eydis have a similar build. Not like Cumber so probably like their mother.

“So the choice is to stay here and help you win a war against your father or pass onto the next world,” Kaze says, “what about those who cannot fight?”

“I can’t fight and I’m staying,” Pym says.

“You’re a healer.”

“Barely,” she replies. Kaze raises her eyebrows, “Lancelot can heal himself, he isn’t credit to my abilities.”

  
“I wouldn’t expect them to fight,” Guinevere speaks up, “but until I’ve won against my father, any safe haven I can offer is meaningless.”

Kaze nods. Lancelot looks at Arthur who still seems stunned at the news that Guinevere is royalty, though he imagines she’s not forthcoming with the information. As the group disperses, he’s not expecting for Nimue to approach them. If she’s angry at Pym’s outburst, it doesn’t show. She looks between them but her eyes settle on him.

“I need to speak to you privately,” she says.

“No,” he replies, “there have been enough surprises today.”

Frustration does show momentarily but she pushes it aside. She squares her shoulder and looks at him.

“After they cross, I need you to melt the ice. So no-one will follow without touching the water.”

“I can,” he says, “where are you going?”

Nimue swallows and for the first time, the mask of a leader breaks and the girl she was shines through. He understands that she hasn’t had the time for the two to become one person. That some part of her is still that child who longs for the world she left behind. But she gives a smile and looks at Pym.

“It’s my destiny to be one with the lake,” she says, “I will guard Avalon and the sword, but I cannot do it as I am now.”

“You aren’t going with them,” Lancelot says.

“No,” Nimue replies, “this is Morgana’s place, she will keep them safe. And I will be here if any should cross the mist. When the lake and I are one, this will be finished. They’ll be safe.”


	37. Chapter 37

Nimue dying is not what Pym was expecting to hear.

She can’t tell if she’s angry or sad or what. She just feels sick to her stomach. She wants to scream or to punch something or to pull out her hair. But she can only pace a section of the beach. Nimue doesn’t want the others to know. Pym doesn’t know who knows. Or what she is supposed to do with that information. Does she try to stop her? Beg her? Help her to her death? Nimue was the person that she would always go to when it came to speaking about things like this. Pym knew that she was going to become less of a option in the imminent future, but she wasn’t going to become whatever she’s thinking about becoming.

She senses Lancelot behind her. He doesn’t say anything, he seems to know that there’s nothing he can say. Pym thinks about asking him to get someone else, but she realizes there’s no-one else she wants. All any of them know of death is on the battlefield. She doesn’t know that anyone understands someone they were best friends with becoming something like what Nimue is about to become. She’s choosing it and Pym doesn’t know how she’s supposed to feel. Or even how she does feel. It’s just a mess of a storm inside her, like all her emotions are turning themselves inside out.

“What’s hellfire supposed to feel like?” She asks.

“Unending pain,” he says, “beyond human understanding,” he hesitates, “we could save them from it by praying.”

“Nimue doesn’t want prayers.”

“She isn’t dying,” he says. Pym scoffs, “she’s becoming like Morgana and Gawain.”

“That makes it so much better,” Pym scoffs.

Lancelot doesn’t contradict her or offer an alternative point of view. Pym is glad he at least seems to realize now is not the time for optimism. She doesn’t want it. Even if it was from someone who was good at providing it. She’s always been the one who looked on the bright side but she can see how little that does. It didn’t save Dof, or her parents or anyone. It won’t save Nimue. The familiar guilt that she thought she had put away churns back to life nauseatingly.

“You could not melt the ice,” she says.

“I could,” Lancelot agrees.

Pym looks over at him sharply and he meets her eyes unflinchingly. There’s no humor in them like there usually is when people claim to listen to her. He wouldn’t, if she asked. She looks back at the isle and thinks Nimue would probably find another way to do it. This is the easiest way. The most efficient way. But some horribly selfish part of her doesn’t want Fey Fire tied to Nimue’s death. No matter how much easier things would be. She swallows tightly and fights the urge to turn from the isle, she doesn’t think she can bear to look behind her at the people she’s going to stay with. Or if she’ll ever be able to look at the water again.

“She’ll just find another way,” she sighs, “before you all came she was trying to leave. And look where we are now.”

It’s anger and hurt that makes her words cruel, she knows that. But she can’t stop herself. The idea that everything has led to this, to Nimue sacrificing herself, it makes her sick. This cannot be what destiny intended. No matter that this is what High Summoners are supposed to be willing to do. Nimue is not supposed to do it, not so soon. Not like this. She’s supposed to have a life. A family. Years ahed of her. All of the Summoners have time and a life, they don’t go within the year of being chosen. She can’t remember ever hearing of someone so young sacrificing themselves like this.

“Do you have friends?” She asks, “besides Goliath and us.”

“None who still live,” he says.

“Did you know they were going to die?”

“Yes,” she looks over at him, “everyone was as good as dead when the Paladins came. The few Paladins I was friends with died doing God’s work,” she cringes, “it’s been Goliath and I for some time.”

“Did the pain ever go away?”

She doesn’t mean to ask the question. Not to someone who seems to have pain tangled together with anything resembling comfort or pleasure. She doesn’t want to hear that it doesn’t go away, that you become the pain. If that’s her fate, she doesn’t want to know. She’s not ready to give up her last shred of hope.

“I used to think not,” he says, “now, I think there are others ways to live.”

“You don’t need to lie to make me feel better.”  
  
“I’m not lying.”

Pym looks away. She crosses her arms against the sudden chill that goes down her spine. It’s the first time that she’s felt cold physically. Which seems foolish considering the amount of ice. Maybe it’s the acceptance that this is a place she doesn’t belong. Somewhere she doesn’t want to be. It seems so stupid that she thought she would belong here. That she hoped she would. All she wants to do is run away. But she couldn’t. She can’t. She can just stand there and stare at the isle and wish that things were different. She doesn’t know how she is standing here willingly choosing a war.

It’s exhausting.

She knows her focus has been on going forward, on continuing that way. Not stopping, not resting. The shiver comes again. The isle suddenly seems more tempting. If only as a place to rest. Before going back to war and adventures with people her parents wouldn’t want her spending time with. She pushes against the desire but it wraps her close, like she’s breathing in the mist. She could see her parents and Nimue again. After she becomes whatever she’s going to be.

“Pym.”

She finds herself gently turned around, away from the isle. Lancelot’s face is almost comically concerned, like when he woke her up from the nightmare. She scrambles for sympathy towards him, he’s trying but this is wildly out of his abilities. She thinks that she should just look at the isle for a little longer, it will make her feel better. But when she goes to turn he grips her shoulder. It’s not hard but she knows she can’t turn. She isn’t strong enough. Like usual.

Warmth pricks through the thoughts.

She looks down to see that Lancelot has his fist between them. It’s not clenched so much as it’s gently curled. She can see the flash of green underneath but he keeps it underneath his cupped palm. Pym shivers again and realizes her jaw hurts. When she relaxes it, her teeth start to chatter. She looks around and realizes that even if the miserable thoughts are still there, the cold fog isn’t.

“I don’t know what just happened,” she admits, realizing for the first time she’s a lot closer to the ice than she remembers being when she walked onto the beach, “I didn’t realize I was so cold,” she closes her eyes and lets the fire warm her and bring the feeling back into her limbs, “are you ever cold?” She asks.

“No,” he says, the concern not leaving his face, “you got lost in your thoughts.”

“I know,” she says, “I keep forgetting how much has happened—“ she feels her cheeks get warm with embarrassment, “it’s ridiculous—“  
  
“It’s not,” he cuts in, “I remember what it was like to lose my home and my family.”

Thankfully the familiar anger towards him doesn’t come roaring back. It’s just a milder version. She can blame him for what happened and also acknowledge that he has been through the same thing.

“I know,” she says.

She doesn’t need to step closer but she can just savor the warmth that comes from his closed hand. She doesn’t look at it and by all means she should be afraid of it, but if it lets her keep her wits about her and keeps her from the cold, she’s willing to put that fear aside. Amulet or not.

“I knew I wouldn’t see my friends again, I know it’s a difficult thing to go through,” he says.

Pym nods.

“I was afraid.”

The feeling is back in her limbs and she looks up at him curiously. He still looks concerned but now he also looks frustrated. She wonders how on earth he kept his emotions to himself all those years. Maybe he just elected not to speak and to hide his face in the cowl of his robe. She can’t think of any other way he lasted as long as he did with the doubts he confesses to having. His brows draw together and his lips part and close again before he opens them.

“Are you trying to keep up the conversation?” She asks tentatively. His lips clamp shut, “its alright,” she says quickly, “I can’t seem to talk without wanting to scream.”

“You don’t have to talk,” he says, “talking just seems to—be something you do to feel better.”

He doesn’t say it with any cruelty or any judgement. Not like she would have expected from someone like him if she hadn’t gotten to know him. But Lancelot trying to figure it out as if this is a fighting style seems like what he would do. A part of her is touched. Another part wants to cry because however sweet it is, their friendship is a new thing. He doesn’t know her like Nimue does. No-one does. It’s a sobering thought.

“I don’t think anything can make this feel better,” she admits finally, “but thank you for trying.”

He nods as they lapse into silence. The warmer she feels the more her emotions seem to make themselves known. She understands the appeal of the ice and the isle. How very little seems to matter. How a moment of sadness seems like a small price to pay to drift away like that. It makes her shiver in a way that has nothing to do with the cold. She’s been tempted by things before, but never something like that.

“I should speak to her,” she says abruptly, “maybe I can convince her—“

“She’s going,” Lancelot says, “her mind was made.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Pym says, even as she knows he’s right. Lancelot looks at her steadily and doesn’t try to placate her, “I can’t just let her do this.”

  
“You could help her,” he says.

  
“Help her to—to what? To kill herself?”

Outrage must be in her voice because he struggles for the serenity that she usually sees him try to imitate when she yells. He gives up though and nods.

“Help her to pass peacefully,” he says.

Pym hates knowing he’s right. She shakes her head. She’s strong enough for some insane things but not what he’s suggesting. Lancelot looks at her steadily and for a moment Pym feels very much like a young girl again. One whose been caught stealing cookies before supper. He’s barely been around the Fey, he shouldn’t already have the ability to look at her like a disapproving mother.

“I can’t do that,” she insists, “if I went along with every insane plan Nimue ever had we’d have been dead long ago. I’m not going along with the one that will actually kill her.”

“She feels this is her destiny,” he says.

“I don’t care about destiny,” Pym snaps, “she doesn’t deserve this.”

Lancelot doesn’t react to the anger in her tone. Pym knows that taking advice from someone whose specialized in murdering Fey for most of their life isn’t something she should do. Nor should she let Nimue throw herself into the lake like this. Not to keep everyone safe. Not after they spent their lives treating her so terribly.

“Pym—“

“Don’t ‘Pym’ me,” she says, “how do you know what her destiny is? You’ve barely spoken to each other.”

“She has the sword.”

“Merlin has the sword, he can go sacrifice himself,” she says, “let him die for them.”

It’s a horrible thing to say but in the moment she doesn’t care. Lancelot looks at her steadily and Pym wonders how someone can be so inviting and so repelling at the same time. She doesn’t like it. But even in the storm of her emotions she knows this isn’t directed at him. That Nimue’s destiny was always to wind up in this place. All of their destiny seems to be that.

She pushes Lancelot’s hand off her shoulder to go tell Nimue that destiny can wait and it’s suddenly on her forearm. When she goes to push it off there, it’s back on her shoulder. She knows he’s a good fighter, she’s just never had a reason to be on the opposite side of it. Trying to push his hand away is frustrating but it’s something to do. Something that doesn’t make her feel powerless. Even though it should. Maybe it’s just the oddity of a physical interaction that doesn’t involve blood or tending to someone’s wounds. When she tries to turn the other way, his hand slides to her wrist and she finds herself pinned with her back to his chest. He could cut her throat and the fact that he could do it one handed just speaks to his abilities. Instead he pins her hand across her chest and over her shoulder.

“You’ll regret it if you don’t make amends,” he says and there’s something heavy in his voice.

Something that makes her think of Dof.

“Alright,” she snaps and waits a moment, “I can’t go to her with you holding my hand and pinning me to your chest,” she points out.

He releases her and she steps away. There’s a flash of green and she closes her eyes. There’s a warm breeze against her face from his cloak as he turn around. When she opens them, he has his back to her.

“Go,” he says, “I’ll handle this.”

She sighs at the finality in his voice but she knows that he’s right. She needs to find Nimue and speak to her. And make things right.

She’ll have to thank him later.


	38. Chapter 38

For as long as he’s cared to remember, Lancelot has felt alone.

It’s odd to see so much of himself spread across these people. He remembers arriving on the shores of an inhospitable place, surrounded by people he felt he didn’t belong with. He remembers what he became. Not the scared, shy boy he barely remembers being. He sees himself spread around these people but perhaps none more than Pym. It’s an unsettling thing. He only allows himself to think about the memory of standing on the shore looking out and wondering where he was supposed to go once he’s put out the flames.

It’s easier.

He’s not foolish enough to equate a bandage with healing, luck with skill. He knows this is a temporary thing and he cannot claim to have control over the flames. But it’s progress. It’s an odd thing to progress slowly and carefully, to do it without Father looking over his shoulder or the flogger being placed into his hand. His back itches and he realizes it’s been hours since he ached for the familiar pain. Traveling through the mists to this place has redirected his thoughts. His back itches and his fingers twitch for the Beads that lay scattered. It’s no matter if the Paladins or the Guard find them now. His fingers miss their familiar weight but though Pym and Squirrel turn from his Prayers, he knows that others won’t be understanding. Not that they should be.

“It is strange to think we will be the last of our kind on these shores,” Gawain says. Lancelot looks at him, “but I suppose you always intended to be one of the last.”

There’s something fainter about Gawain’s voice, something that reminds him eerily of how he had been before his death. Not broken in any way that mattered but certainly drained. Hurt. The green vines that seem to be him now are tinted brown, like they are rotting. It started at his feet but now it is almost at his waist. It’s as though death calls for people here. Him, Pym—most of the Fey. 

“I don’t feel it,” he says. Gawain looks at him, “this place doesn’t affect me like you.”

“You’re of these people, you’re not of this land,” Gawain says, “there were rumors that the Ash Folk were no longer connected to any land since they left these shores,” he sighs in regret, “but I do not know if that’s true. So much of the Ash Folk is rumor.”

“I understand,” Lancelot says.

Gawain nods.

Lancelot hesitates for a moment before finding the words.

“Did it hurt to become what you are?”

Gawain considers for a moment and Lancelot hopes the answer is not what he dreads it to be. A look of pain passes over his features, but it’s gone so quickly Lancelot wonders if he imagined it. A dreamy smile comes over Gawain’s face instead.

“I can’t remember,” he says, “it didn’t hurt as badly as what came before,” Lancelot winces, “is that what the did to you?” Gawain asks.

There’s a flash like a thunderclap in his head. Things that he’s pushed so far out of his mind they don’t even feel like his memories anymore. Or so he tells himself. He remembers when Brother Salt had cruel eyes, ones that shined with delight at doing the Lord’s work. He remembers Father’s hand on his shoulder, the promise of his measure being taken. Then the promise of being sharpened like a sword, the suffering cleansing him from weakness and sin. Putting him on the Path.

“It doesn’t matter,” Lancelot says quickly, his thumb running over his nails. All still there.

Gawain looks at him quietly for a moment but offers no absolution. Instead there’s just a flicker of understanding, an understanding that comes from a shared experience.

“I am sorry,” Gawain says, “that no Knight came for you.”

“It—“

“It does matter,” he cuts off, “it’s not as black and white as we all wish it was,” he looks at his fingers, “it seems I’ve been in the bath too long.”

“You should go to the woods,” Lancelot says.

“I will see them to the next shore,” Gawain replies.

“There’s time,” he says, “not everyone has made a decision,” Gawain looks out at the isle, “rest,” Lancelot says, “I’ll signal you before it’s time.”

“I’m afraid we don’t have that long,” Gawain says.

Lancelot looks back at the beach. More Fey have started to move towards the ice. Some just subtly and some are actually moving towards it. His heart gives a sick lurch and he looks quickly for Squirrel among them. He finds him with Kaze. She’s herding the little ones into a tent. She glances at him and nods. His heart relaxes just enough to let him think straight. The adrenaline coursing through him with these non fighters is a new and unpleasant experience.

“Stop them,” he says to Gawain, “I’ll gather firewood.”

“Do we need it?” He asks.

“Yes,” Lancelot says, “fire seemed to help. Stop them from going onto the ice.”

Gawain’s dreamy look seems to fall away at the tone in his voice. Lancelot goes towards the outskirts of the woods. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Arthur break away and come towards him. His eyes are clear and he looks concerned but determined. It’s possible that the place doesn’t have the same effect on man-bloods.

“We need firewood,” he says, “the heat seems to help.”  
  
Arthur nods and then looks confused.

“I thought you didn’t need wood for the—“ he nods towards Lancelot’s hands.

His side aches with a phantom pain.

“I can’t control it enough to make something like that,” he says.

“Yet.”

He looks over at Arthur sharply. Arthur gives him an offhanded shrug.

“Morgana used to make me say that anytime I would talk about not being able to do something,” he says. He clears his throat, “you want to take that side?”

“We should stick together,” Lancelot says, ‘we won’t get far with the mists.”

Arthur nods and they set about collecting as much wood as they can. It’s dry and damp and not connected to the living forest. Though Lancelot isn’t even sure if this place could be considered a living thing. Not this close to that other place. They gather armfuls of firewood and bring them back to the camp. He looks over to see Arthur expertly start one and turns back to his own work. It’s not the first time he has made fire with damp wood. They set the fires and Gawain starts to direct people towards them. Arthur follows. Lancelot goes into the tent where Kaze is sitting with her arms folded and a pile of little ones at her feet. One gasps when he comes inside.

“I only peeked a little!”

Kaze looks at him with a raised eyebrow. Lancelot shakes his head, he’ll have to explain his status as a boogey man to her later.

“We have fires outside,” he says, “they help.”

“If they don’t fix it, they’re better in here,” she says. 

Lancelot wishes he didn’t agree. There’s no promise that this will work for everyone. Pym dismissed her healer abilities in the face of his healing, but he knows that fire won’t be enough for everyone. Not everyone has the will she does. It’s better if the children don’t see the consequences of that. He nods instead to her and steps out. The tent hits something behind him and he turns around to see Squirrel standing.

“I want to help,” he says. Lancelot hesitates, “besides you’re not supposed to let me out of your sight. Remember?”

“Help me gather wood,” he says. 

“Why don’t you just make fire without it?”

Lancelot feels the annoyance at the question and, at the same time, realizes it’s one that he’ll be hearing until he learns. Squirrel doesn’t go more than an arm’s length from him, mainly because when he tries to Lancelot pulls him back. He loads Squirrel up with enough sticks that the boy has to concentrate on breathing and carrying the weight, which is a pleasant change from the barrage of questions.

“Too heavy?”

“Never,” Squirrel says stubbornly, “I walked behind Goliath the whole night.”

“Come.”

He lets Squirrel back to the camp and they make a fire for the little ones and Kaze. Squirrel doesn’t give him a chance to leave him behind as they head to where Tristain is still tied up. Whatever fear she felt at the stones seems to have gone away. When she sees the sticks, she rolls her eyes and makes a scoff that carries through the gag. Before he can reconsider, Lancelot pulls down the gag. 

“Do you want to go to the isle?”

“Like I told your bastard Queen, I would rather burn in Hell,” she spits.

Lancelot is surprised they’ve asked her without telling him before he remembers that they don’t trust him. Or most of them don’t. He nods and piles the sticks. Tristain watches, unimpressed, as he starts a fire. Lancelot straightens up and looks down at her.

“Are you curious what will happen after the others leave?”

“No,” she snaps, “I am on the Path. The Heavenly Father will guide me.”

She says it with conviction and devotion, the way the most faithful Paladins did. Lancelot searches for any sign of the doubt he felt, or the absence. But there is none he can see. She believes it blindly. Maybe she felt it. Maybe it was truly him all along. He doesn’t know. But he nods and reaches for the gag as she lifts her head up defiantly.

“You will Burn,” she says, “and your brothers will enjoy the sight of it,” she smirks, “that place can’t save you.”

“I’m not going,” he says.

The surprise at least shuts her up as he pulls the gag back up. He guides Squirrel out first and looks at Tristain. Her eyes narrow at the sight of the young one. There’s no hesitation in the venomous look. It’s unsettling to see someone who looks like him, it’s worse to see them feeling the things he always longed to feel. Believing as he tried to believe. He prefers the cold and mist outside. Squirrel glances at the lake but turns when Lancelot comes up behind him.

“Have you changed your mind?” He asks.

“No,” Squirrel says.

“Good,” Lancelot hesitates for a moment, “come,” he leads Squirrel away from the others.

“Do we need more wood?”

“No,” he says.

He can’t understand what he’s doing, if this is some kind of egregious overstep. But he knows that everyone is focused on important things. Pym will try to convince Nimue, but he cannot fathom letting the boy witness more death without being prepared. Squirrel looks at him curiously and Lancelot fumbles where to start.

“Your friend Nimue is the Queen,” he says. Squirrel nods, “sometimes good rulers need to make sacrifices for their people.”

“She did that,” Squirrel says, “I’m glad it didn’t stick.”

Lancelot feels his nerve falter but he pushes on.

“She needs to make a different sacrifice to keep your kind safe,” he says. Squirrel frowns, “so that Avalon is protected.”

Squirrel’s frown deepens, confusion adding weight to his young face.

“I don’t understand.”

“She’s going to become like what Gawain is,” Lancelot says.

“Oh, that’s fine. I’m not afraid of Gawain,” Squirrel says confidently, but Lancelot can see the doubt and fear warring on his face.

“It’s not that simple,” Lancelot says, “she’s going to become one with the water.”

“So I won’t see her again?”

“I don’t know,” Lancelot admits. The emotions warp into something like anger.

“If you don’t know, why would you say that?” Squirrel demands, “I’m going to talk to her—“ Lancelot stops him with a hand, “don’t stop me!” Squirrel yells with as much force as he can, “she’s not going to die. You don’t know that. You’re just a Squire. You don’t know our ways!”

“Percival—“

“Don’t call me that!” He bellows and swings at him.

Lancelot catches the boy against his chest as he tries to strike him before the yelling turns into loud, hiccuping sobs. The fists turn into a death grip on his tunic. It’s easy to stop someone from hurting him, far easier than it is to deal with the boy sobbing into his stomach. Lancelot imagines it was only a matter of time before it happened, but he realizes he’s ill prepared. He doesn’t know how to help this part of Squirrel. He steadies his shoulders and that just seems to make Squirrel cling to him harder.

Lancelot doesn’t remember ever properly embracing someone, though he’s sure he must have at some point in his life.

But he’s not a fool so he holds Squirrel around his shoulders and lets him weep. 


	39. Chapter 39

She pulls the comb through Nimue’s hair with practiced strokes.

She had always believed that Nimue would be the one who would survive. Who would prepare her body when she passed into the twilight. It never occurred to her that she would go first. When she had come into the tent and seen the look on Nimue’s face, the arguments she had hastily thought of seemed to die on her tongue. Now as she helps her, they start to resurface.

“We could find another way,” she says.

“The Hidden disagree,” Nimue says, “this is what I was meant to do.”

“I thought I was meant to live in the village,” Pym says, “I was wrong about that, maybe the Hidden are wrong about you,” Nimue gives her an incredulous look, “I’m just saying you deserve a life. A long, long, happy one.”

A shadow flickers across Nimue’s face. It’s rare to see her truly afraid but something close to it shows.

“Merlin lived a long, long life,” she says, “I don’t know if that’s a good thing.”

Pym realizes her mistake. It’s a very unsettling thing to be misunderstood by someone who knew her every thought and intention. She realizes that for all she hoped the gap between them would get smaller, it could just as easily get wider. But the pain of that would be better than the pain of it not going either way. Of their friendship being broken and frozen like it is now seemingly destined to be. It makes her throat tighten. But asking Nimue if she and their friendship matter at all seems like a childish thing to do, so she focuses on Nimue’s hair instead. Their friendship did matter, she can do nothing but she can be here for her friend.

“Are you afraid?” She asks.

“Not anymore,” Nimue says, “I was when I was on that bridge, when I thought I was going to die,” she exhales and Pym tries not to see bubbles where there are none, “then I realized that everything was leading to where we are now,” she looks back at her, “this is about them.”

The tone her voice takes is something close to how Gawain speaks. As though they have passed along from this world already. It’s selfless and it’s terrifying. And Pym knows that she should be grateful, that their sacrifice allows her to stay alive. But it scares her. She would rather be surrounded by the loud Raiders or Arthur’s ability to charm even a tree. She’d rather be around Lancelot who seems just as caught up and confused when it comes to being grateful to the dead and not being sure it’s time to join them.

“Your mother would be proud of you,” she says.

“I thought I saw her,” Nimue confesses, “in the water. I thought I heard her. I think it was just the Hidden being kind.”

“Perhaps it was both,” Pym says.

Nimue’s hair shines as she sets the comb down and starts to braid. She knows how to do Nimue’s preferred style. Though she’s always preferred less elaborate braids on herself. But she’s not the High Summoner. So less elaborate braids are befitting. She works the few flowers that have been gathered into the plaits and hides others in the few braids she’s hidden throughout the rest of her hair. She touches Nimue’s shoulder and tries to smile. 

  
“I’m done,” she says.

“Thank you,” Nimue tells her, embracing her. Pym breathes in the scent of her oldest friend and tries to commit to to memory, “here, I want you to have these,” Nimue says, going over to her riding cloak and coming back with her prayer beads in her hands.

Pym’s mouth goes dry.

Nimue’s beads are far more elaborate, made of labradorite, amethyst and sandalwood. Even after the many years they’ve been in her family, they still give off the scent of the wood. They belong to the next High Summoner. Someone else is supposed to have them. Even though Nimue will never have children or pass them to another Summoner. She guards the Sword now.

“I can’t—“ Pym starts.

“Yes,” Nimue cuts in, “you’re going to be one of the last of us here. And you’re my best friend. These belong with you,” her smile softens, “I know yours got lost.”

Pym tries to ignore the knot in her stomach and nods, extending her wrist to let Nimue wrap the loop around it several times. Nimue bends and presses her lips against Pym’s hand and the pendant. She looks up at her and in another time an argument would have started. But now Nimue just looks at her.

“You’ll be a great healer one day,” she says.

  
“I don’t want to be great,” Pym says, “I’m from the village—I didn’t even want to be a healer. I would be fine being alright at something.”

The words spill out like a confession and the urge to rip the beads off of her wrist is overwhelming. So she shoves her other hand into her pocket and grips the other beads in there. She half expects one of the prayer beads to start to smoke, as if both religions will burst into flames at the mere proximity to one another. Or with being on her skin. But nothing so dramatic happens. Nothing happens at all. Except that she feels marginally better knowing that she can distract her fingers with the beads in her hand instead of with breaking the others on her wrist.

“That’s what’s always made you special,” Nimue says, “you’re a girl from the village, but you have always seen things differently. We wouldn’t be friends otherwise.”

“That doesn’t make me special,” Pym argues, “it just makes me—not as foolish.”

“It makes you special,” Nimue says. She guides Pym’s hand up from her pocket and looks at the broken beads and the hateful cross. But there’s no anger on her face when she looks at it. Just a shadow that passes quickly, “no-one else would have seen what you did. Not with me, not with him.”

“That’s not true,” Pym says, “Squirrel—“

“Gullayad wouldn’t have let him near me, if he hadn’t seen us together,” Nimue counters, “you can be ordinary and extraordinary at the same time. It doesn’t have to be one or the other.”

Pym fights the urge to argue and settles for rolling her eyes.

  
“Says the most extraordinary one of us,” she says.

Nimue doesn’t argue. Maybe that is the biggest change. She’s taken the burden of leadership, everything that it entails. She doesn’t look as though she wants to run away, she looks as if she wants to do what she knows she must. She looks like the High Summoner, as well as their Queen. She squeezes both of Pym’s hands as though she can commit the feeling of their flesh to her memory. Then she drops both and steps back.

“Is there anything I can do to make tonight better?” Pym asks.

Nimue straightens up and looks at her. There’s something in her eyes. Pained but accepting. Something Pym wants to ask about but finds it difficult.

“Rest,” she says, “just rest.”

“Did you—“ Pym cuts herself off with a yawn, anger warring against the sudden weight in her veins.

“I know you,” Nimue says, “you never sleep when you’re upset.”

“You’re going to die, how could I not be upset?”

“Which is why you need at least one night of sleep. Before you don’t for a while,” Pym fights the urge to lay down right there, “this is the last thing I can give you,” she says, “if you read this you will be a great healer.”

She presses a leather book into Pym’s hands. Even in her ordinary hands, she feels the book seem to hum. As if it’s a living thing. Maybe it is. She’s seen it before in the hands of the High Summoners. She’ll never be able to do what Nimue can, but in her arms is the key to doing something. At the moment though, she just wants to hit Nimue over the head with the book and point out that making her sleep was a terrible thing to do. Even if the intention was good. She had planned to spend the night with her like when they were girls but instead she finds herself stumbling onto the hateful beach. Surrounded by Fey and fires and wondering how on earth she’s supposed to keep her feet under her.

She at least manages to stumble away from the ice.

  
Surely there’s something in the book that will tell her how to fix this. She just has to stay awake long enough to figure it out. Staying awake long enough to get somewhere to open the book, to turn the pages, to do any of this seems completely unfathomable. She forces herself to breathe through her nose and focus on taking one step. Putting one food in front of the other. Her own magic seems to sputter as she stumbles, as if even that is going to sleep with Nimue’s siren call. But she doesn’t even have the strength to push aside her own hair.

“Pym.”

She jumps as a hand clasps onto her shoulder and another pushes the hair back from her face. She’s not surprised to see Lancelot. She imagines being cursed or blessed or whatever Nimue has done has wreaked havoc on her scent. His eyes move across her as she tries to get herself used to not moving, after just having gotten used to feeling like she was moving. Lancelot looks her up and down and Pym realizes he’s checking her for injuries.

“I’m supposed to go to sleep,” she says, “I don’t sleep when I’m upset, I have—“ she searches for the word, “too many nightmares. It’s easier to stay awake.” 

Lancelot nods as though it makes perfect sense, even though Pym’s sure that her words have come out completely garbled. He wraps an am around her shoulder and helps her support the weight of the book so her fingers can relax their death grip. She forgets why they shouldn’t when one of his prayer beads hits the ground. She goes to pick it up but he steadies her and does it himself.

“I thought these were lost,” he says.

“I was trying to repair them,” she says, “I can’t find any silk and it didn’t seem right to use Fey magic on them.”

He puts the bead back in her pocket and helps her open her hand so the rest of them tip into his. To her surprise he puts them with the others instead of taking them back or saying any of the things she’s sure that he’s thinking. He moves to take the book and she shakes her head, grasping it as tightly as she can manage.

“I’m supposed to keep it safe,” she says.

“Alright,” he tells her.

She imagines he would understand the importance of a book better than most. He helps her get her arms around it again and guides her up the beach. She stumbles a few times but her weight is always caught easily. Lancelot guides her to a tent and the next thing she realizes she’s being sat down on her bedroll. She brings her knees up to help hold the book as Lancelot crouches in front of her.

“I don’t want to sleep.”

“I don’t think you have a choice,” he says.

She nods because she knows he’s right. There’s nothing to do though. And that is what has always been the problem with being ordinary and extraordinary at the same time. Or at least with being those things around the extraordinary. At the end of the day, they will do what they want. You just have to hope it’s not something you’re against. Or something you don’t want them to do.

She blinks and looks up to see Lancelot lay her head back. Her arms are still tight around the book but Lancelot gently breaks the grip of one to unwind the beads. Pins and needles prick at her fingers and she half hopes that the beads will be tied to sleeping but she finds she doesn’t feel any more awake. Though she keeps the book close when Lancelot goes to move his hands back, she grabs his.

“Rest,” he says, “I’ll be here.”

Pym doesn’t think that should make her feel better, but it does. She doesn’t have the strength to say it. Lancelot rubs his thumb over her knuckles.

Then she can’t fight Nimue’s magic any longer and slips away.


	40. Chapter 40

“I saw you take Pym from the beach,” Nimue says.

Lancelot nods. He’s not pleased to have been summoned like this, he doesn’t know what Nimue could have to say to him. But he’s here none the less. He knows enough to understand that if the leader summons you, they expect you to arrive. Nimue continues to look at him cooly. She looks nothing like those who have ordered him before, there’s a power in the blooms and silk she wears that he doesn’t understand. But he would be a fool to think she didn’t have it.

“And Squirrel told me you spoke to him about what I am to do.”

He nods again.

“Pym doesn’t sleep when she’s upset,” Nimue says abruptly, “neither of them remember to eat either. You’ll have to see to that.”

He frowns, Nimue doesn’t trust or like him, but she instructs him none the less in what both of them do. He’s noted both things about their behavior. Squirrel also stops talking while Pym speaks more. Squirrel cries more readily and Pym tries to hide her emotional responses. But Nimue isn’t aware of his knowledge. He’s surprised, out of all the people she could be relaying this to, he wouldn’t have expect it to be him.

“Why are you telling me this?” He says, “Gawain—“

“Gawain is beyond all of this,” Nimue cuts in, “he is staying to do what he must, but don’t forget that he has moved beyond this world. You have not,” she looks him in the eye, “I want my friends to be taken care of.”

Lancelot can see her holding back all the things she wishes to say. Things he’s sure he deserves to hear. Asking for help from an enemy isn’t something that comes naturally to anyone, especially not one with burdens such as hers. Trusting her friends with him, that doesn’t seem like something she wants to do. But he can see the selflessness in the act. The two of them will never be friends, he’s not sure if a friendship between them would be possible after the things they have done to each other. But he is friends with Pym and Squirrel. They have chosen to be his companions, to stand by him, in a way that Lancelot isn’t sure anyone has in his entire life.

“You are a child,” Nimue says, though it’s not as cruel as what she could say, “you’re new to our ways. You’ll learn, in time, but I was afraid I was leaving them with someone who wouldn’t know how to take care of them. I still have my doubts.”

“You wanted to see if I would come for Pym,” he says.

“That was a part of it,” she says unapologetically, “I wanted to see if she would go to you as well,” she frowns, “being my friend cost her things, things she says never mattered, but once she was friends with me no-one else wanted to be friends with her. I was contagious to them,” she pushes the frown away, “I wanted to know she had someone who she trusted.”

Lancelot can see her logic but can’t approve of her actions. Her last forced sleep is still fresh in his head. He remembers the aftermath of her kidnapping, the nightmares and jumps that still cling to her. It seems wrong that he knows those things and Nimue does not, but their focus has been on getting to Avalon. One Fey is, logically, not worth the lives of so many. He can say that tracking down escaped lone Fey is his business, but he also is aware that is not the entire story. He cannot explain it to Nimue though, Pym has kept his secrets. He can do the same for her.

“She does,” he says.

“You talk more with her,” Nimue observes, “and with Squirrel. Perhaps in time you’ll have more you speak freely with.”

“Arthur isn’t terrible to talk to,” he says finally.

“No,” Nimue agrees, something wistful and bittersweet in her voice, “he isn’t terrible. He trusts you as well. You’ve proven you belong here more than you realize.”

“This is where I belong,” he says. He hears what she is not saying, “I didn’t feel this way with the Paladins. Gawain saw it.”

Her relief is palpable. She doesn’t trust him, she will never learn to. Not when she moves beyond all of this. But he knows what she’s seeking. He’s sorry that they come to this at two such radically different places. Sorry and grateful that in his own struggles about his loyalty, he was not alone.

“Gawain had that talent.”

He doesn’t correct her.

“I told him to kill you if you betrayed them,” she says, “I’d ask for your word, but—“ she trails off with a cold smile.

Being told he’ll be killed if he betrays them is how Lancelot has always functioned. The promise of consequence is a powerful motivator, he’s always known that. It just surprises him how there can be more powerful motivators in things he never considered. The desire to protect and stay besides Squirrel and Pym is more powerful than the promise of a gruesome death. It’s more powerful even than the promise of hellfire. He doesn’t say it. His words don’t mean anything and he knows that.

“I should return,” he says, “if that’s all.”

“It is. The magic will wear off shortly,” Lancelot nods and moves to the entrance, “Lancelot,” he stops, it’s an odd thing to hear his name but he turns, “always strive to be worthy of their sacrifices for you,” she says, “it may seem simple but their friendship is worth more than you know.”

He nods again, it’s the fastest way out of the tent. Only then does he allow himself to feel the guilt and annoyance. He knows they have made sacrifices, that they could both very easily turn their backs. But he knows that they won’t do it. He also knows that they don’t expect him to repay them, if there is even a way to do it. They have not asked him to do anything. Not even to stop praying. He wonders if that is what Nimue meant, but he doesn’t focus on asking for clarification. He needs to return before Pym wakes up. He quickens his pace and pushes open the tent flaps. She’s still asleep. Squirrel is nearby, watching like he was told to. Relief drums through him. He doesn’t question it, it’s the end of a task that hasn’t gone wrong. But it’s almost a comfort to sit down and let the tension of that conversation with Nimue go.

“What did she want?” Squirrel asks.

“To make sure I wasn’t planning on leaving,” Lancelot says. Squirrel rolls his eyes.

“That’s ironic,” he scoffs. Lancelot gives him a sharp look, “well she’s the one whose leaving.”

“It isn’t that simple,” Lancelot corrects him. Squirrel folds his arms, “you need to speak to her,” Lancelot says, “you’ll regret it if you don’t,” Squirrel doesn’t retort, “we’ll go when Pym wakes.”

“She didn’t move while you were gone,” Squirrel says.

Lancelot nods. He didn’t expect her to since she’s not naturally asleep. She’s in the exact same position, arms around the book and her face still. He bound her hair in case the spell released her to a more natural sleep. He’s come to learn that she is not a still sleeper. The confines of her bedroom or her hammock seem to be the only thing that keeps her from tossing from one end of the tent to the other.

True to her word, Nimue’s spell starts to ease.

Lancelot slips his hand into hers as she wakes, mimicking the position from when she went to sleep as best he can. It’s a close enough match that when she opens her eyes and sees him, there’s a moment before the panic sets in. As though she’s just blinked. If the spell is as he thinks it was, to her it has been just a blink. Then she notices the change in light. Her fingers clench on his as she looks around.

“It’s morning,” Squirrel says when she looks at him.

“What?” She winces as she let’s go of his hand and the book, sitting up and rubbing her arms. Her throat bobs, “wait, which morning—“

“Nimue is fine,” Lancelot says before the panic can start, “nothing has happened.”

She visibly relaxes. Squirrel gets the waterskin and hands it to her. She takes it and drinks gratefully. A dry mouth and sore arms are small problems but not pleasant things to wake up to. Pym sets down the water and looks between the two of them, going faintly pink at her cheeks.

“I’m alright,” she says, “just disoriented. It feels like I just blinked,” she presses her hand to her forehead, “and like I’ve slept the whole night for the first time in weeks,” she shakes her head to clear it, “thank you for making sure I was safe.”

“Anytime,” Squirrel says.

“Let’s go to Nimue,” Lancelot tells him. Squirrel nods. Pym opens her mouth and looks at him, “I explained what’s happening, he’s going to make amends.”

Surprise wipes the expression from her face. When she opens her mouth he half expects her to scold him. But she nods instead, looking almost weak with relief. She mouths her thanks to him and touches Squirrel’s shoulder, turning him to face her.

“She has a lot on her mind, but she’s still our friend,” she says. Squirrel looks heartbreaking young before he nods, “remember that.”

“I will.”

“Good,” she says.

Lancelot leads Squirrel to Nimue’s tent. He knows that they need their privacy, but when he sees Kaze standing with her he feels relieved. Kaze looks at him and at Squirrel and nods. He knows Nimue would never do anything to the boy, but he also knows she does not want him there. If he can leave Squirrel with Kaze and give them the privacy they want, it’s best for everyone. He clasps Squirrel’s shoulder and nudges the boy inside.

“Can you wait here?” Squirrel asks.

“I’ll see you back at the tent,” he says.

Squirrel nods, puffing up at the trust before he steps inside. Lancelot makes his way back towards the tent when he sees a figure making their way to the woods. He doesn’t need anything but his eyes to see the figure is alone. He pauses for a moment before turning and following them as they step into the small opening between the rolling fog and the tree line. Lancelot doesn’t hide his presence, but Arthur is still surprised when he turns around.

“Lancelot, Is something wrong?” He asks, his hand going to his sword.

“I saw you head into the woods alone,” he says, feeling foolish at stating the obvious.

“Ah,” Arthur nods, “I’m not good company at the moment.”

Lancelot nods and doesn’t move. Arthur looks at him silently. Then he shrugs and turns back to the fog. Lancelot isn’t sure if he’s being dismissed. Even if he is, the redness in Arthur’s eyes says it would be foolish to leave him alone and vulnerable. Lancelot has spent his entire life surrounded by people who would prefer he wasn’t there, but until recently he has protected them all. Arthur reaches out and brushes his hand across the fog.

“It’s a shame they’d couldn’t just stay here,” he says, “no-one would have to die or move on.”

“This is no place to live.”

Arthur swallows and nods.

“I thought it would feel more like Morgana,” he says.

Lancelot looks at him sharply. It occurs to him suddenly that in all of this, Arthur may be losing the most. Again. Morgana is not truly alive but Lancelot has no idea if this will be the end of her making trips. If going to this Fey place will sacrifice her last ties to humanity. Nimue is not truly alive either, but what she is about to become will be something far beyond what she is now.

“Will Morgana be able to come back?”

Arthur makes a sound like a wet laugh.

“That’s the question,” he says, “probably, but it’s not for certain. All of this is unknown.”

“I’m sorry,” Lancelot says quietly.

“You know she’s been helping the Fey the entire time? Even when she was in your church. Did any of you know?” He shakes his head. Arthur’s wet eyes shine with pride, “she was always good at getting out of trouble. It used to drive me mad,” he smiles wistfully, “I suppose that’s the thing about siblings, younger ones at least. They drive you mad and when they’re gone, you don’t know what to do with yourself.”

It’s not something he should understand but he thinks about Squirrel testing his patience and vows with every parting of his lips. He thinks of being glad to see him run off but also being struck by now quiet the forest became without him. Mostly he thinks of Squirrel spitting in Father’s face and the sinking realization that he was about to do something incredibly foolish. All to protect one scrawny, infuriating, very brave boy.

“She may come back,” Lancelot offers.

“As what?” Arthur asks bitterly, “if she comes back as something worse, is that my fault for wanting her here?” He shakes his head, “I can’t be that selfish. No matter how badly I want her here. No matter how badly she deserved a full and happy life,” he wipes under his eyes, “so I came here, so she wouldn’t have to see me like this.”

“It’s not safe here,” Lancelot points out. Arthur nods and smiles mirthlessly.

“But here I am.”

Lancelot nods and turns his back. He cannot leave Arthur alone but he can sense the man blood doesn’t want company. Giving him privacy while keeping watch seems to be the best option he has. He can feel Arthur’s gaze on him until it breaks and the man looks away. He makes it over to a tree and quietly gives in to his grief as Lancelot keeps watch. The fog seems to filter through the trees and he wonders if Morgana is aware and also giving Arthur his grief. Lancelot wonders if this will be how everyone is for a while.

He wonders if it will be him, eventually.

The focus on keeping them safe has kept him ahead. It always has. The binding between him and his emotions has been silenced and frayed for so long, he was nearly convinced he lost the ability to put his emotions into words. That’s not the case. But he thinks that the pit of what he’s done is something that he will not emerge from. It’s not something he has earned the right to confront. So he allows the others their grief and he keeps watch, as best he can. It isn’t long before Arthur comes back to him.

“Thank you,” Arthur says.

Lancelot nods. Arthur gives him a long look.

“We should return,” he says.

They make their way back. Though they haven’t gone far, the change is immediate when they step out. Tents are coming down and more glances are being cast towards the ice. It’s almost time. Lancelot isn’t going with them but he feels his heart sink at the aftermath. Arthur scrubs his face and gathers himself before going to his sister. He sees Gawain with the rest of the children, including Bors. Lancelot makes his way back to the tent. Pym is sitting on her bedroll, lost in her thoughts. She looks up when he comes in.

“It’s time, isn’t it,” she says.

“They’re getting ready,” he confirms.

She opens and closes her mouth before nodding.

“I wasn’t supposed to be one of the last,” she says quietly.

“Neither was I.”

She looks at him, surprised, before she remembers what he means. There’s an odd relief that comes over her. It changes the scent coming off of her. It shouldn’t, there’s nothing that will make this better or easier. But the knowledge that someone has done this as well, that you aren’t alone, it seems to be enough. For now. She stands up, sliding the book into a sack of cloth and putting it over her should. It hangs the book at her hip.

She takes a deep breath and steps out to face the others.

Lancelot follows.


	41. Chapter 41

The ice holds.

Pym isn’t sure if she’s disappointed or happy or some combination. Morgana steps onto the ice, she doesn’t whisk herself across like she can. She holds her lantern high and steps forward. As she does, Pym sees her gown begin to change. The heavy simple dress begins to shimmer, beads appearing from nowhere. The shape changes as well. Volume gives way and the fabric wraps and drapes over her shoulder. It’s as if by entering the place, it has become hers. Not the reflection of someone else. She turns back and smiles at Arthur. Then she continues on her way. She makes it across and onto the docks and lifts the lantern. She’s a shimmering speck but she’s there.

The others follow.

They go in waves, clans go together and those who no longer have clans find places with others. They intend to die together, if the ice breaks. But it doesn’t. It holds. As the first make it there, the sound of laughter rings back to them. Pym takes a deep breath and listens to them as they find something wondrous on the other side. She wants to know what, but she bites back the words. She keeps her tongue silent and her feet still as they make it across and to this new place. The groups stop coming and her heart drops with the realization of what will come next.

“If there is anyone else who wishes to go now, you may,” Nimue says.

Squirrel’s hand finds hers. Pym looks at him and sees her own doubts looking back at her. She squeezes his hand back and nods. If he wants to go, she won’t stop him. But he shakes his head and steps closer to her. She loops her arm around his shoulder and reaches down with her other hand to take a hold of Bors.

“It’s not too late,” she tells him.

“I don’t want to go,” he says.

“You can stay here with us,” she assures him.

Nimue looks at them and Pym shakes her head. Disappointment shines in Nimue’s eyes but she nods. Pym knows that it would be easier if they went, if they were truly safe like the others are supposed to be. But she knows that she can’t. None of them can. No matter how easier it would be on others. They don’t belong there yet. A shadow comes over her and she looks to see Lancelot.

“You two stay here,” she says to the boys, “I need to help Nimue.”

They grip each others hands and she walks to where Nimue is standing. Lancelot doesn’t move to help her, but she knows that he’s there if she stumbles. Which is lucky because while her feet feel steadier, the knowledge she’s about to witness Nimue’s death makes her feel weak and lightheaded in a much worse way. Nimue’s somehow dressed in her blue silks, though there’s more gold threaded through them. Gold for a harvest that she will never see. Never pray for. Nimue takes her hands and clasps them. Pym ignores the lingering anger.

“I was always lucky to have you,” Nimue says, “if I could have had all the friends or you, I would have chosen you.”

They embrace and Pym can feel wetness on her shoulder. Just as she feels her own tears fall on Nimue’s shoulder. Though lower down. Nimue has always been the taller of them.

  
“Don’t be afraid,” Pym says, “you’ll be as extraordinary as you always have been. The sword chose well,” she tightens her arms around her friend, “I did too.”

Nimue sobs softly and then pulls back, wiping her cheeks on her sleeves. Even though there’s precious few of them left, Pym knows that she wishes to be strong. She steps back to where Merlin is waiting a few paces away. When they are next to each other, the resemblance starts to show through. In how they stand and move, walk and speak. Pym wishes that there was more time, more time for all of this. But Nimue’s words about Merlin living long echo in her ears. They have to respect each other’s choices. Nimue looks over her shoulder and nods. Pym feels the air behind her get cooler and turns to watch as Lancelot approaches the ice.

She’s seen him decimate large parts of the forrest, but without a source she doesn’t know how it will work. If it will work. He walks over to the edge of the water. He crouches down and puts his hands into the water, underneath the ice. She watches as he closes his eyes and tilts his head, as though he’s listening to something only he can hear. She knows to turn her face away but she watches anyway as his palms start to glow green. The Fey Fire starts to lap out from underneath his palms and spreads. She inhales sharply as the ice begins to illuminate a bright blue green. Lancelot opens his eyes and looks out. His marks absorb the glare but the ice dampens it further. She realizes he’s judging how far the spread is.

The ice breaks.

It thins and then it starts to crack audibly. She hears Lancelot take a sharp breath and the cracks begin to widen. As the ice thins, the water becomes difficult to look at. Pym turns her gaze away as the others do the same. The cracks begin to grow farther apart and silent, until the sound of the water moving freely about is the only thing she can hear. The bright green fire that casts their shadows all around winks out as Lancelot pulls his hands from the water. He turns from it and nearly bends himself in half to hide what he is doing. This is a Fey rite, his prayers don’t have a place here. It doesn’t take him very long to make the Fire go. The green vanishes entirely and Pym gasps at the cold that floods through her.

She looks up to the lake. Unbound by the ice, it churns and swirls. It looks angry to her eyes. Not like somewhere that Nimue should go. Even Nimue pales slightly at the sight of it, though Pym can recognize her stubbornness. She looks back at her father. For once, Merlin looks like the wizard of legend. He nods at her and Nimue straightens up, as though she draws strength from the same place he finds his. She takes the Sword and draws it, holding it in front of her. The blackened waters seem to tremble in their turmoil, as though they too recognize her power.

“All of you who stand here today, man blood and Fey alike, shall have a place at Avalon. Whenever you wish it.”

Pym follows her gaze to see Arthur and Guinevere standing nearby each other. Kaze, Gawain, Bors and Percival are another group. The other Fey and Raiders are scattered about with no sense to where they are standing. As if they are one people. Finally Nimue’s gaze locks with hers again, though she stops at Lancelot as well. As if letting him know that he has a place here as well. She looks at them both as she stands there.

“Until we all pass into the twilight, I wish you nothing but happiness in the dawn.”

Nimue smiles one final time at her and then gets a look of peace on her face. She steps forward, holding the sword in front of her. Pym feels herself step forward, as if pulled by an invisible string to follow her. But Lancelot’s hand falls to her shoulder, grounding her away from the water, even as it laps at her ankles and the hem of her dress. Nimue walks slowly and Pym can only watch as the water stains upwards on her dress, spreading out in a of promise of what is to come. Her waist darkens as the water rises past her thighs, her chest as it rises past her waist, her hair flows behind her and several of the flowers pull free. Pym finds her own chest rising and falling in time with Nimue’s, like it did when they were girls trying to breathe in sync.

She takes one final breath with her as the waters cover her head.

Pym holds her breath as her lungs burn and the sword sinks beneath the waters. She holds her breath like they are girls again, seeing who can hold their breath longer when they swam in the lake. It was always Nimue. But every time Pym would hold it a little longer. Always pushed on by her extraordinary friend and her wonderful abilities. Pym refuses to exhale. She can share one more breath with her. As long as she doesn’t exhale then nothing will happen. It’s not about winning some girlish game. It’s about holding one final breath so they can exist together in some way. Even just for another moment.

The lake stills.

It’s as if it’s been frozen again. It goes perfectly and completely still. Behind her the mists break. The sound is audible and it forces the remaining air from her lungs as she sucks in a new breath. She turns to see the mist rolling towards them. It’s like they are a living thing reaching for her as if to push her into the water. It wouldn’t be the worst way to die. She steps back to make it easier on them but only gets one step behind her before she finds herself lifted and turned around and the world suddenly dark.

For a moment, she thinks she may have fainted again.

Or this is some mercy from Nimue.

But the arms that wrap around her back and solid and warm. And the chest that she’s pressed against rises and falls with a living heartbeat. Faintly she can smell that incense the Paladins use, but it’s overwhelmed by the smell of fire and musk. The mists swallow them. She buries her face in Lancelot’s chest and fists her hands in his doublet as it makes everything go white and hazy.

When his arms relax, she looks past him to see nothing.

It’s a still lake and a beautiful sunset. The sky is clear. When she looks to where Avalon should be, there’s nothing there. It’s like seeing Morgana vanish from one place. She always reappears but Pym cannot say where. She blinks stupidly at the place that’s absent of land and tries to put her shock into words.

“Look at the water,” Lancelot says, “where the reflection was.”

Pym focuses and realizes that she can see the reflection still. It’s lost in the gentle motion of the lake, if she didn’t know where to look she imagines she would miss it entirely. But she does and she can see the shores, the lights of people’s lanterns. All skewed but all there. A place removed from this world. They are safe. She can see that, but as she looks across the water she realizes she cannot see Nimue.

The fear and emotions that have churned inside her seem to vanish like Avalon. She thinks that maybe she’s felt too much in these past weeks. She’s reached her limit and she’ll never feel again. They are safe, that’s the only thing that matters. Suddenly even the idea of breathing seems to be a lot of work. NImue’s gone and the others are with her. They are safe and somehow Pym is one of the last adult Sky Folk standing on these shores.

It’s only Lancelot who keeps her upright.

He’s helped shoulder her weight before but he takes all of it just as easily. The water seems to wrap around her feet, like it’s a hand reaching for her. It seems desperate to hold on as Lancelot picks her up and carries her back from the water. It’s Merlin who moves forward, welcoming the embrace. It’s Arthur who grabs him and pulls him back.

“Curse you, let me die,” Merlin spits at him.

“Not yet,” Arthur snaps, hauling him back.

“I want to join them—“

“You haven’t earned the right!” Arthur bellows and even that silences Merlin.

Arthur pushes him back and Gawain hauls him up. As the man turns to go, he pauses. Pym tightens her grip on Lancelot. She can’t see Arthur’s face but he steps forward, the water lapping at his thighs. The idea of losing him makes her heart stop. If fear is the only emotion she’s to know, then she wishes for death. Before she can push Lancelot to put her down Arthur sinks his hand into the water. For a stupid moment, Pym thinks when he pulls it free Nimue will be on the other end. That she’ll get some measure of happiness.

When he lifts his hand, he pulls the Sword free.

Water drips from the tips of it. Pym is half sure she imagines a glimpse of Nimue’s blue sleeve and pale hand in the reflection, but if she does it’s only moments before it sinks beneath the water. In the end the only thing there is Arthur, holding the sword. The chosen one. He stares down the dripping blade and down at the water below.

“Arthur.”

Despite all the screaming that’s happened and all the big words, the quiet way that Guinevere says his name echoes louder. Even to Arthur who looks half mad. She hasn’t moved. It’s a miracle that he’s heard her at all. But he has and he turns to her. She holds out a hand and he steps from the shining water. It’s one foot in front of the other, though the water seems to cling to him and call him back. He chooses to move away.

He chooses them.

He stands in front of Guinevere with the sword in his hand. The light from the setting sun burns across it’s runes. Guinevere looks from the sword to him and nods. When she reaches for him, Arthur’s eyes roll up and he collapses boneless at her feet. The sword falls from his hand and the runes go dark. Pym watches her drop to her knees and reach for the sword, but when she tries to touch it she can’t. Pym doesn’t know if Arthur has made it glow, if Nimue has or some combination. But the sword is his now.

Nimue is gone.

Pym manages a final breath and follows the chosen one into unconsciousness.


End file.
